Spoils of War
by Aearwen22
Summary: In Mirkwood, at the end of the War of the Ring, a stranger in a strange land struggles to find a new place among beings thought to be fearsome and cruel. Rating increased in Chapter 5 due to disturbing verbal imagery and suggested violence. NOW COMPLETE
1. Spoils

Chapter 1 - Spoils

The unbelievable had happened: the vast army sent forward from the Tower to crush these northern enemies of the Dark Lord had been defeated. She had heard the distant roar of _urik_ voices turn from angry belligerence to fearful howls.

That had been one day ago.

This day, Inzilanî stuck her nose out of the tent flap and stared at the utter bedlam that had overtaken the camp, and immediately wished she hadn't. Everywhere she could see grey and green-garbed warriors of the enemy _nimîr_, overturning cooking fires and slashing at the canvas tents with long and wickedly curved swords, apparently searching for more warriors to fight, as if they believed that not all the _uruk_ had long since gone on ahead. Those swords looked to be swinging at anything that moved; and although she couldn't tell for certain, she imagined that many of the young boys that had served the other officers had been cut down ruthlessly. Those that hadn't been hacked to pieces had been probably been pierced by arrows. It was what happened to those left behind.

She was doomed; she knew it. She stopped straining at her restraints and pulled back into the tent to gaze numbly at the golden manacles and chains that had prevented her from running away from the grey-skinned _uruk_ that had won her by killing her previous owner. The one who had demanded that she call him Zirân had snapped the manacles on her and chained her to his bed; the _urkan_, however, had simply locked the chain to a metal loop attached to a post driven into the rocky ground. Both had been cruel in their use of her, and she didn't regret their deaths – if indeed dead they were. But their precautions would cost her life the moment she was found, and nothing would change that fact.

The noise outside the tent grew louder and closer. The _nimîr_ would have no mercy; this was well-known from the many stories she'd heard as a small child, in the days before her parents had sold her for food to keep the rest alive another year. Now the war was lost, and all who had been a part of the defeated forces would have to pay the price for that failure. Inzilanî gathered around her body the tattered blanket that had been her only warmth in this cold and heartless land – the only covering her body had known for weeks – and sat down next to the post to await her appointment with death.

She flinched hard as the expected swish of a sharp sword sliced the tent open as if it were a ripe orange. In the few moments that she had left, Inzilanî folded her hands across her chest and put her forehead to the floor; she had no desire to see death coming at her, nor know the face of the one who would send her into the abyss. She heard the whisper of the blade as it descended, and sent a quick prayer to her ancestors, begging them to welcome her and not turn their charity from her. What she had become hadn't been her fault…

What she didn't expect, however, was the harsh clang of metal striking metal, or the hands that grasped hers tightly and effortlessly hauled her up off the floor and to her knees. Wide-eyed, she found herself looking up into a beautiful and terrible face, with grey eyes that burned from within with a strange light and held something else – was it surprise? Whatever it was, it didn't last long. Inzilanî was pulled roughly to her feet and then dragged by one hand behind the silver-haired _nimir_, clutching at the blanket desperately and trying not to trip over the chains trailing from her ankles and wrists.

Finally, with a grunt, the _nimir_ pulled her forward and gave her a shove that sent her stumbling through a circle of armed warriors and into a small knot of the young boys who, like her, had been the property of the _urik_ and used in much the same way. The boys, some in tunic and leggings, others in thin sleeping shirts, most of them from the lands to the east rather than the south, and all of them wearing chains, recoiled at the sight of her. Inzilanî worked to drag the ragged blanket more tightly around herself. She sank to the ground and slowly pulled the golden chains to her, moving her lips in a fervent chant to the spirits to give her the strength and bravery to bear whatever fate was hers.

Time seemed to slow. The noise of the camp being destroyed continued, and from time to time another boy would be shoved through the circle of shining swords to join the rest. There were not as many as she had thought there would be; then again, knowing the _urik_ and their appetites for mortal flesh, both in the stewpot as well as in their beds, it wasn't so surprising after all. But of the women who had been brought as well, there were none left but her. Inzilanî knew why, but it was no comfort: the women were a good luck sacrifice to the Dark Lord, to be killed just before the final march to battle. She had heard the screams as the others had been killed. But the _urkan _that had killed to acquire her hadn't cut her throat, hadn't drunk of her blood. He had given her one of his ugly grins and promised to return when the _nimîr_ were all dead and make her service him until she wished for death. She would be his victory prize, her death his sacrifice to the Dark Lord for giving them victory. The thing was, he _hadn't_ returned.

But while time had slowed, it didn't stop entirely, for soon the chill wind came down from the northern wastes as it had every late afternoon in this horrible place. Inzilanî rubbed her hands on her bare shoulders and arms, figuring that the cold would simply be the new form of discomfort she would have to endure. She didn't dare look up to see, but she was fairly certain that the _nimîr_ were unaffected by the wind, thanks to their armor. Whether the boys were as uncomfortable and chilled as she was, however, she had no need to know; they weren't her people, weren't her friends, weren't even known to her. Their chains rustled as they moved, and there was an occasional soft whisper, but they were otherwise as silent as she was.

A barked word came from somewhere beyond the circle of keepers, and suddenly the _nimîr_ were on the move again. The circle of swords shattered, and each one who had stood guard now took one of the prisoners in hand and began dragging them away. Inzilanî, too, was grabbed by the hand and dragged to her feet, only to be pulled along behind the one evidently charged with her keep. All of the _nimîr_ looked alike to her, or so she thought. The one that dragged her had silver hair, as had the one who had pulled her from the tent, and the grasp on her wrist around the golden manacle was just as tight and unforgiving as it had been the last time.

However, Inzilanî had more control over her chains this time, as she had gathered those attached to her ankles into her one hand and wrapped those at her wrists around them. So although she no longer feared tripping, the tight hold on her wrist pressed the hard metal links of the wrapped chain into her flesh painfully. She refused to sound a complaint, though. For some reason, these inhuman demons were keeping her alive for the time being, and she wouldn't give them the satisfaction of a single sound that would betray her weakness between now and when they finally dealt with her. She was already dead, after all – it was only a question of time.

It finally became easier for her to try to trot and keep up with her keeper, for the pace didn't slow but a little bit when she'd trip – just enough for her to get her feet under her again – before she was being dragged on again. From the sounds of cries of pain and frustration, it didn't sound like the boys were faring much better in this forced march that had them heading in the direction of the smoke that hung over the forest to the north. Inzilanî wondered if they were going to be taken to some central place of execution, so that the act of final annihilation could be made into a spectacle for the rest of the victorious _nimîr_.

But no, after several hours' walk through a dark nighttime forest, they broke through into a clearing lit by many torches and dominated by a large bonfire, over which an entire deer was spitted and roasting. The smells of something better than the half-rancid meat and rough, worm-infested bread that had been her sustenance since being taken by the _uruk_ made Inzilanî's mouth water. So intent was she on the smell of something actually edible that she failed to note her keeper's halt, only to be jerked back and to the ground on her backside when his grasp on her still didn't ease.

Around her, she could see out of the corner of her eye many of the boys having a similar problem. The warriors charged with their keep had stopped in neat lines and rows and seemed to be waiting – for someone or something.

That someone turned out to be another _nimir_, with shining golden hair the color of her chains and armor that gleamed in the light of the torches and bonfire. Taller than any of the warriors, this one held himself in such a way that Inzilanî knew that he had to be the General - or the King. Before this Great One could catch sight of her looking at his face, however, she knelt in the way she hoped would be acceptable when the grasp of her keeper wouldn't allow her to prostrate herself completely, found a spot on the ground in front of her – a slight thinning of the grass barely visible in the firelight – and focused her gaze there. Her keeper tugged at her hand, trying to get her to rise, but she settled firmly to her knees and refused to cooperate any longer.

As the Great One strode down the line, questioning each warrior he came to, Inzilanî trembled. Would it be an offense to have a woman present in a war camp, or would her circumstances change only in terms of the race of the one who would mistreat her night after night as before? That was, after all, a time-honored tradition: women – especially those who had serviced the officers of the vanquished – were spoils of war to be used as the victors chose. She had no hope that these creatures would be any gentler than her previous owners had been. The _nimîr_ had no mercy, no honor, after all. And as their prisoner, her fate was sealed even more finally.

She tried not to shudder when those decorated leather boots of the Great One halted in front of her. From the pitch of voices, evidently the Great One was surprised – probably that she had survived this long – and her keeper had much to do to answer the many questions that were fired at him. Eventually a large, long-fingered hand descended and took hold of her chin to raise her face, and Inzilanî found herself eye to eye with the golden Great One, who gazed at her calmly through green eyes that glittered in a way she couldn't understand. Those eyes had seen much, too much, perhaps.

But a word and a gesture from that one had her keeper lifting her physically from the ground until she would put her feet down again, and then dragging her off again into the rows of colorful tents. She sighed. It was as she had expected: the Great One himself would take her now and use her, exercising his right as the victor. Perhaps he would kill her when he'd finished with her, perhaps not. Inzilanî honestly wasn't certain what she hoped would be her fate.

Her keeper brought her to a tent, smaller than she had expected, and pushed her through the flap before following her in. The tent was far more comfortably appointed than either of her two previous owners had possessed: the floor beneath her feet was the soft grass, but there were chairs, a table, a huge bed, and several crates arranged in a very livable manner. Her keeper loosed his hold on her then and spoke a few words, and Inzilanî was certain she knew what he wanted her to do.

With a sigh of resignation, she loosed her hold on the tattered blanket and let it drop to the grass, and then moved to the bed and lay down on it, turning her head and closing her eyes. Would her chains now be attached to the four sturdy posters at the corners of the bed now, so that the Great One would not have to arrange her much before taking his ease in her? Would he be long in coming? Hopefully it would be over soon…

"_Baw!_" Her keeper's voice sounded strangled, and he suddenly began tugging at her hand. She opened her eyes in surprise to find him gesturing for her to rise from the bed, not exactly looking at her either. What did he want of her _now_?

It didn't matter. She slipped to the edge of the rather comfortable mattress and sat up, then stood again tiredly to await whatever was in store. Oddly, her keeper was now keeping his eyes averted, and went to one of the wooden boxes and opened it. He pulled something startlingly white from its depths and held it out to her, still not looking directly at her. He had to shake it several times before Inzilanî finally dared take it with shaking hands.

It was a gown – perhaps a sleeping gown, she had no way of knowing the customs of these creatures – of a material so soft that it slipped in her hands like water. Startled, she looked to her keeper again, only to see him wave his hand at her without looking at her and let loose with a whole stream of words that she couldn't understand. Did he _really_ want her to put it on?

Very cautiously, she slipped the gown over her head, and then eased her arms with their trailing chains through the sleeves. The gown wasn't warm, but it was the first time Inzilanî had felt actually dressed since becoming the property of the _uruk_ captain. Finally her keeper was looking at her again, those strange grey eyes of his filled with a light that reminded her of starlight. Again he beckoned, this time to follow him over to one of the chairs. Another gesture clearly told her he wanted her to sit. She obeyed, but started to wonder just what was going on? Where was the one who would possess her this night? Why ruin a beautiful gown…

Her keeper went to the flap of the tent and spoke briefly to someone outside, and then came back bearing something Inzilanî had not expected in the least: two plates, each with a slice of the meat that smelled absolutely delicious, a slice of bread that was unspoiled, a few nutmeats and berries. He put the plates down on the table and seated himself in the other chair, then slipped an eating dagger from somewhere on his person and cut the meat on her plate into smaller pieces. She stared at him when he gestured, obviously telling her to eat, and then set about feeding himself.

But the meat smelled so good, and it had been so long since she'd had any food that tasted anything but sickening, Inzilanî cautiously took up a piece of meat and slipped it into her mouth. The taste was so wonderful that she couldn't help the tears that overflowed onto her cheeks. If she was to die soon, at least these _nimîr_ were giving her a fine last meal. She was so overwhelmed that it was hard to remember that she had to chew and then swallow.

For the first time, she began to wonder if all the stories told of the _nimîr_ and their ways had been mistaken. Certainly the gown she now wore, and the food waiting for her on the plate, indicated that perhaps they knew mercy and extended it, at least once in a while.

She still flinched when her keeper arose suddenly and walked past her to where a pitcher sat on a crate with several metal cups nearby. He poured the liquid into two of the cups and brought them back to the table, setting one in front of her before returning to his seat. He nodded at her as he took a sip.

A little braver this time, Inzilanî picked up the cup and sniffed. Water! Fresh, clear, sweet water! Never had something so simple tasted so good! She sipped at the water, holding the cup in both hands in case it would be taken from her. More than food, she had missed the taste of water. The draughts that the _uruk_ continually drank had been nauseating and not at all thirst-quenching.

She looked up to see the _nimir_ watching her closely with those strange, glowing grey eyes of his, totally lacking in animosity or disgust. Taking a chance, she reached out and pinched another bit of meat and sat back in her chair, as far away from him as she could get, and chewed it slowly, still cradling her cup of water in the other hand. He used his bread to wipe up the juices from the meat and then sat back himself, munching on the nuts and berries.

When her keeper didn't move a muscle after finishing his meal except to keep a close eye on her, Inzilanî cautiously pulled the plate into her lap, where she could pop the bits of meat into her mouth with little effort. Suddenly famished, she made short work of the meat, followed her keeper's example to sop up the juices with the bread, and then put the plate back on the table, full and suddenly quite sleepy.

She jerked awake when her keeper rose and came next to her. Her cup was drained of its water, so she didn't fight him when he took the cup and set it back on the table, but her eyes went wide when he took hold of an arm and gently pulled on it, urging her to rise again. So the time had come at last, although she had been given a good meal to convince her to cooperate. It was better than the _uruk_ had ever done, and so even though she was shaking like a leaf in the wind, she allowed him to pull her back towards the big bed.

The gown was only so she could be decent while eating? Inzilanî began to pull the gown back over her head, only to have her keeper's hands tug the gown back down again with another strangled, "_Baw!_" Did that mean "no?" Instead, he pulled back the top covers on the bed and gestured for her to climb in.

It made no difference to her whether she was used on top of the blankets or beneath them. And maybe the Great One enjoyed destroying clothing. Either way, she wouldn't fight him. He'd seen her fed, no doubt by his order, given her water to drink and clothing to wear for however little time. She wouldn't fight. Perhaps, then, he'd decide to keep her – and if he didn't hurt her too badly very often, she would think herself lucky.

Inzilanî did as she was bid, and could hardly believe how warm and comfortable the bed was once her keeper had pulled the covers over her. There was a soft padding that cradled her head just right. She yawned despite herself, but forced herself to keep watch on the tent flap for when the Great One would appear. But her keeper was now moving about the tent, extinguishing candles until only one lonely flame at the table illumined the tent's interior.

Her eyes widened in sudden understanding. Perhaps it wasn't the Great One who would be possessing her tonight, but rather this_ nimir_ warrior instead? She grew more confused, however, when her keeper simply sought the chair he had taken while eating and stretched out his long legs to cross them at the ankles. This didn't make any sense! She was spoils of war – she knew her fate! Why were they toying with her?

Maybe they wanted nothing to do with one who had been possessed and used by the _urik_? Maybe she disgusted them, and they only waited for the light of day to put her out of her misery. They'd given her a last meal, to send her soul on its way to her ancestors without the curse of hunger.

Oh, but she was tired, and the light was dim enough that it was hard to hold her eyes open…

_Vocabulary - (s) Sindarin (a) Adúnaic_

_baw - (s) no, don't_

_nimir - (s) Elf_

_nimîr - (s) Elves_

_urik - (a) orcs (obj. case)_

_urkan - (a) orc (nom. case) _

_uruk - (a) orc (obj. case)_


	2. Chains

Chapter 2 - Chains

"_Aur vae._"

Inzilanî jerked away with a small cry of fright at the jostling her shoulder was getting. Her keeper raised his hand carefully and showed her that he was pulling away, but then gestured. A quick look around told her that it was full morning already. Whatever was planned for her would probably happen this day. She had rested better in this huge bed, alone and unmolested for the first night in over three years, but knew better than to hope that this was a turn in her luck, although Destiny normally didn't change for girls like her.

Her keeper gestured again, and she nodded and threw the covers back. It was chilled in the tent, out from the protection of the blanket and furred robe that she had huddled beneath, and without thinking, her teeth chattered. The _nimir_ blinked in surprise, then dragged the fur from the bed and surrounded her with it. Inzilanî didn't know what to do at the unexpected kindness except to clutch at the edges of the fur and hold them tightly. She watched him with wide eyes, not having the slightest idea what to expect anymore – from him _or _his people.

He beckoned her back to the table, where a plate waited for her in what was obviously intended as "her" place. On it was another slice of that wonderful bread, what looked to be a thin wedge from a wheel of cheese, and more of the nuts and berries that had decorated her plate the night before. And as she cautiously took her seat, her keeper went past her to the pitcher and poured another liberal cup of water for her and brought it back to the table.

He wasn't content to just watch her this morning. He reached and patted his fingers against the table, not truly attempting to touch her, and then brought his hand back to his chest once he had her attention. He said a few words, and then pointed to her. Inzilanî slowed in her eating to watch him carefully. He tapped his chest. "Borongil." Then he pointed to her.

Was he asking her name? Once more she was completely confused, but with her eyes wide to show her uncertainty she pulled her hand back from the plate and tapped herself on the chest as he had. "Inzilanî."

The beautiful face of her keeper broke into an unexpected smile. "_Mae_!" He pointed to her. "Inzilanî," and then pointed to himself. "Borongil."

"Borongil," she carefully repeated the sounds of his name, marveling at how different the sounds of his language felt on her tongue. Then, embarrassed at looking at him for so long without chastisement, she looked back down at her plate and busied herself pushing the nuts around. The bread was very filling, and the cheese had a tang to it that was unfamiliar but tasty. The water was as sweet as it had been the night before, and as appreciated. But at last the food was gone, and she sat back in her chair, her gaze properly focused on her hands in her lap, to await her next orders.

Borongil, however, evidently knew exactly what was to be done next, and he went to the tent flap and once more spoke words to someone without. After a few moment, he held the flap open for another _nimir_ to come into the tent bearing tools. Inzilanî took one look at the chisel and hammer and fled to the bed and huddled herself as tightly as she could against the wooden headboard, shaking her head vehemently as tears poured down her cheeks. They were going to take off her fingers and toes, she just knew it! She'd been forced to watch the _urik_ do something similar to a captive not that long ago using tools similar to those. She was ready to die, but not be slowly put to agonized torture! Here and she had almost begun to trust Borongil…

The _nimir's_ face grew almost panicked, and he quickly stopped the other from coming any further into the tent and then went over to the bed. His words grew soft and his fingertips touched her hair lightly as he shook his head, but Inzilanî continued to shudder and sob. Finally he lifted a finger and tapped it gently against her cheek until he had her full attention, and then he touched the exposed manacle on one of her ankles, and then made a gesture like pulling the metal ring away. He was going to take them off?

Inzilanî's eyes grew even larger. Why would he do that? Wouldn't he be afraid that she would bolt and run away? Then again… She thought for a long moment, remembering just how far they had traveled in that dark forest the night before. Forests had bad things in them – things the Dark Lord had set free in order to take their toll on the _nimîr_ long before the battle. If she ran, she ran to certain death. Her only chance at life was here, with the _nimîr,_ for as long as it suited them to keep her alive. She gazed warily at Borongil, her tears slowing, not entirely ready to extend her trust again.

Borongil held up a finger again, catching her attention once more, and then began to mimic using the tools that the other one had brought, as if he held the chisel against the lockpin of the manacles and tapped it with the hammer. Then he gestured opening the metal ring and throwing it away. The expression on his face grew hopeful. "_Na_?" he asked gently, and extended his hand to her.

She looked over at the other _nimir_ and shuddered. That beautiful face was folded into an expression of distaste that she knew all too well. That one was no more pleased at being around her than she was at his presence. Inzilanî looked back at Borongil, seeing his hand extended to her without resorting to just dragging her where he wanted her whether she liked it or not, and she wished she knew whether she could trust him or not.

Obviously, the other _nimir_ had no compunctions about getting her to do what he wanted, because suddenly a harsh, tight hand closed around her leg and dragged her roughly to the edge of the bed. She gave a terrified squeak, but then stared as Borongil shoved his fellow warrior back away from her with harsh words and a deep frown, placing himself between the newcomer and her. While the two argued loudly, hands flying in all direction to punctuate their words, she carefully crept backwards until her back was against the headboard again, with her feet tucked in beneath her and her arms wrapped about her.

A loud voice growled from outside the tent, and suddenly the flap lifted to allow the golden Great One entry. Inzilanî shuddered, realizing that there was no escape for her at all anymore. He was here now, and surely he would have his way. If it was his wish that she lose her digits, she would lose them – and quickly too. A black cloud of resignation descended on her, and she quickly scuttled off the bed to land on her knees in the grass and press her face to the ground as well. The warriors' argument ceased immediately, as one after another was pressed with impatient questions. She curled her fingers into the palms of her hands, knowing the attempt to protect them to be utterly futile. One warrior would hold her down while the other would simply…

"Inzilanî." Borongil's voice called to her, but the Great One was in the tent. Inzilanî had learned the hard way to prostrate herself properly when someone in authority was close by, and she had no wish to repeat that lesson on top of losing her fingers and toes. She whimpered and shuddered hard, but didn't budge.

There was another conference, this time with lowered voices. Then movement came close. "Inzilanî." This time, it was the voice of the Great One, in a firm tone that brooked no disobedience. A firm hand caught at her beneath her arm and pulled at her to straighten. Too terrified to fight, she sat back on her heels, tucking her hands into her armpits protectively, and kept her eyes trained on the bent blades of grass in front of her.

Once more, her chin was grasped firmly and turned upwards, and she found herself looking at the Great One and his frightening green eyes. Movement from behind the Great One drew a quick glance, and it was the angry _nimir_, pulling a heavy stone through the flaps of the tent. Once the stone was positioned, the angry one turned and glared at her, arms crossed over his chest, the hammer and chisel held at the ready.

Inzilanî looked back at the Great One, her eyes filling and then overflowing with fat tears of dread and fear, and shook her head pleadingly. Implacably, he held out his hand to her. She looked around, but Borongil was no help, being nowhere in sight. The Great One spoke a word, and she was fairly certain she knew exactly what he had said. Her moment of doom was at hand, and she was going to suffer horribly before finally given release to her ancestors. She was shaking so hard she could hardly control herself, but she forced herself to finally put a hand in that large paw waiting to grab it.

Not surprisingly, the Great One wasted no time pulling her to her feet and then pulling her toward the angry one and the waiting stone. No matter how hard she dragged against him, he was able to keep her moving in the direction he wished her to go. The two _nimîr_ consulted, and then the Great One pulled her hand out to rest on the stone, holding her in place by the elbow and forearm. When she began to struggle, hitting his hand and anything else she could reach with her free one, she felt someone come up from behind her and catch her about the chest, capturing her free arm and quelling her struggles. Borongil had betrayed her, just as she feared he would. The angry one unfolded his arms and came toward her with the hammer and chisel, eyeing her extended hand with obvious expertise.

Not wanting to watch, knowing she'd feel it the moment the chisel bit into her flesh, Inzilanî closed her eyes and turned her head, already keening. The Great One spoke again, a single word, an order, and the tent filled with the sound of metal striking metal. But the sound wasn't accompanied by agony, and she cut off the keening abruptly in surprise when she felt the metal ring about her wrist manipulated and then, miraculously, loosen. She opened her eyes to stare as the angry _nimir_ gave another hard twist on the two halves of the manacle, which then fell away.

The Great One immediately let go of her arm, and Borongil let go of her entirely. She slowly pulled her hand back disbelievingly, staring at her intact fingers and cradling the one hand in the other. Unable to think clearly, she dared look up into the terrible and beautiful face of the Great One, only to find those green eyes gazing back at her with shock, compassion, and sorrow. When he again stretched out a hand to hers, and indicated with a nod that he wanted the other hand, she didn't shake quite so badly when she gave it to him. She didn't need Borongil to hold her still, for this time she didn't struggle. She didn't look away either, and it was soon made clear that the angry one was very good with his chisel and hammer. Once more, it took only a single blow and then some twisting to have her other wrist free as well.

This time, when she looked up at him, the Great One was genuinely smiling at her in encouragement, and Inzilanî snapped her mouth shut and looked away in embarrassment to be so closely under his scrutiny. However, the moment her mind began working again, she dropped to her knees and put her forehead into the dirt at the Great One's feet. Even if he demanded that she service him now, in front of these others, she wouldn't fight or struggle. The horror of torture had been lifted from her; now all she had to do was endure until it was time for her execution. But he still deserved proper respect…

"_Baw._" The word was said kindly, and strong hands once more lifted her from the ground and held up her from beneath her arms until she put her feet down to hold herself. Confused, she glanced back up into the Great One's face, only to see him shake his head at her, along with shaking a finger before her nose. He didn't _want_ her to prostrate herself? But…

Borongil had brought over one of the chairs, and a pointed finger from the golden one had Inzilanî moving quickly in answer to a wordless demand that she sit. One by one, she lifted her feet willingly to the stone as directed; and each time, the manacles fell away from her ankles with a single blow of the hammer to the chisel and some determined twisting of the metal. The Great One oversaw the entire process, standing aside silently now with his arms folded over his chest.

The deed finished, the angry one tucked the hammer and chisel into his belt and began to man-handle the stone from the tent. Inzilanî could only stare at him, and then hesitantly back up at the Great One as that one spoke briefly to Borongil and then, with a shallow bow and a hand to his heart, he turned to leave.

"_Pharazôn!_" she cried, unable to think of any other name for him but one that spoke of his golden hair and the golden light that seemed to surround him. He turned, his face clearly surprised, and Inzilanî stood and walked over to him. Hoping beyond all hope that touching him without being asked would not offend or insult, she sank to her knees before him and bore his hand to the top of her head, offering herself to him freely. Better to be the bed comfort of one such as this than of any _uruk _captain or even of one of her own people. In those startling green eyes, the color of the first leaves of spring, she had seen kindness, and she didn't want to leave it.

"_Sidh,_" was the reply, and the hand slipped gently from her head to once more lift her from the grass. _Pharazôn _then brushed the backs of his fingers against her cheek before looking back at Borongil and speaking words that were clearly directions. The warrior nodded agreement and then pressed his hand to his heart and bowed. Then, gifting her with a brief but warm smile, _Pharazôn_ turned and left the tent.

"Inzilanî." Borongil's summons broke through her reverie about how all the stories that she and her people had heard told about the _nimîr_ had to be utterly wrong. She turned to gape at the sight of him pulling more clothing from the wooden box – this time leggings and a tunic, and _boots_, of all things – and placing them on the bed. When he pointed to them, she nodded and smiled at him. He hadn't betrayed her; he'd merely served his General or King – or whatever _Pharazôn_ was to the _nimîr_.

Maybe she _could _trust him after all.

_Vocabulary (A) Adúnaic (S) Sindarin_

aur vae - (S) good morning

_baw - (S) no, don't  
mae - (S) good, well  
nimir - (A) Elf (sing)  
nimîr - (A) Elves (plural)  
Pharazôn - (A) Golden One  
sidh - (S) peace, calm  
urik - (A) orc (nominative case)  
uruk - (A) orc (objective case)_


	3. Movement

Chapter 3 - Movement

The clothing Borongil had for her was too big, having been crafted for a _nimir _and not an Umbari woman-child, and she had eventually had to tuck the extra material of the leggings into the tops of the too-large boots and use a length of one of the chains that had once held her prisoner to both hold up the leggings and snug the tunic to her waist. Soft cloth had been wrapped around the weeping sores and bruises caused from the manacles after her wounds had been washed and treated with a salve that stung slightly, and then protected with a short length of soft leather. He had eventually dug up a comb, patiently tamed the matted ruin that was her hair for her without much pain at all, and then plaited the length and tied it with a thread pulled from the blanket that covered the bed.

Then, refusing to let her prostrate herself to him in gratitude, he took Inzilanî by the hand and pulled her from the tent into a different sort of bedlam. All around her, the tents of the _nimîr_ camp were being knocked down and packed into wains. In the distance, she heard the combined shuffle of many feet, and knew the _nimîr_ forces were getting ready to march. Borongil lead her through the chaos until he had brought her to where many of the frighteningly tall steeds were kept.

He patted the rump of one that was a mottled grey, and Inzilanî widened her eyes. Horses were a rare commodity in the village where she'd been born. Her Umbari owner had possessed a few of these beasts, but never had he allowed or forced her to be near them. The _urkan_ had never had anything but one of the vicious and ugly dog-mounts they called _warg_, and she'd been glad to walk rather than go anywhere near it. But her _nimir_ keeper patted the rump of the horse again and then bent down and laced his fingers together into a cupped shape.

She stared at him, having not the slightest idea what he wanted her to do. Finally, even though his smile wavered a little, he beckoned her close, then simply lifted her in his arms and swung her up with very little effort at all so that she straddled the horse's rump. He had sprung up into the saddle in front of her before she even had a chance to panic, and caught at her hands and showed her how to hang onto his belt to give herself stability.

When the horse began to move, Inzilanî's hands surrounded Borongil's waist desperately and held on tightly, with her face pressed into his back and her eyes closed for fear that she would be bumped off and break her neck in the fall. She couldn't be certain, but she thought she felt him pat her hands comfortingly as he moved his mount to join with the other mounted riders. It took a while for her to finally realize that she really was safe enough riding behind him and begin to look around.

Some of the other _nimîr _riders also had passengers at their backs hanging on for dear life. Evidently each of the bed-slaves had found or been assigned a keeper from among the _nimîr_, just as Borongil was for her. Each of the captives had been relieved of their chains as well, garbed in simple clothing if they hadn't been clothed before, and many of them looked as shocked and disoriented as Inzilanî herself felt. A few were clearly terrified. Overwhelmed and wanting nothing more than to be safely back on the ground, she pressed her face into the hard, metal-covered leather at Borongil's back, wrapped her arms into his belt so that it would take work to dislodge them, and closed her eyes again.

It was a long day of riding, and Inzilanî had gone from uncomfortable to agonized to numb by the time the entire army finally halted. She was hungry and thirsty, but not half as bad as she had been at the end of a day of marching with the _uruk_. Borongil patted at her hands to rouse her and then helped her unwrap the tight leather from around her arms, but then held onto each hand in turn and massaged where the belt had cut into her skin, aiding the blood back into her hands. Inzilanî held her breath at the small kindness to a mere slave.

She wasn't ready for her legs to give out from beneath her entirely when he helped her down from the back of the horse, however, and neither was Borongil. Murmuring something in obvious regret, he picked her up off the rocky ground and held her close as she leaned on him heavily. When he figured out what she had already realized – that her muscles had frozen and now refused to move at all – he simply picked her up.

Several of the other riders, mostly those who hadn't been burdened with one of the other captives, called out in mocking voices; and a mean laughter that made Inzilanî shudder filled the air. Borongil spoke to her again, his voice soft and apologetic, and she leaned her head against his shoulder to show that she wasn't holding him responsible for the actions of his comrades.

Somewhere over the course of the day, she had lost most of her fear of her tall, intimidating keeper. Perhaps it had happened as he had patted her hand from time to time throughout the day, letting her know that he still remembered that she was behind him and knew she was uncomfortable. Perhaps it had been that last smile before the horse had started to move in the morning. Inzilanî was far too tired and sore to want to figure it out.

She wasn't surprised when Borongil finally found a place to let her sit down, wagged a finger at her as if telling her to stay put, and when she nodded, threw her a smile and strode away to join the other _nimîr_ in their labors. As time went by, more of the captives were deposited on the ground there by their keepers. All were equally miserable and unable to move, and once more Inzilanî found herself shunned and ignored. But no warriors guarded them with a circle of drawn swords this night; then again, none were needed.

By the time the keepers were ready to reclaim their charges, the sun had long since vanished. Once more, the chill wind blew down from the north, where legends told of the Dark Lord's former master having built _his_ stronghold, and Inzilanî wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed to warm the thin, coarse homespun tunic. The boys sitting near her had bunched together for warmth, and she wished she could walk over and join them; but not only would her legs still not bear her weight to carry her to them, but the glances at her from that direction had been downright hostile as well as fearful and sore.

She understood the sentiment all too well. She wasn't supposed to have survived. As far as the others were concerned, sparing her life had jinxed the battle and sealed their fates. She was _ugru-manô_ – a shadow-spirit, a walking dead person. No one loyal to the Dark Lord would come near her willingly now, except to do what should have been done days ago.

She didn't care. She hadn't made any friends with the white-skinned dust-hairs from the East, whose language she didn't speak. And she didn't care now, provided none of them came at her to correct the omission that had cost the Dark Lord his victory.

But Borongil was obviously surprised to see her sitting all by herself on the rock, shivering in the cold. He looked at her and gestured for her to rise, and Inzilanî genuinely tried to do as he'd bid her. But the least attempt to move made her thighs scream in agony, and she finally looked up at him and shook her head fearfully. There was no way she could move herself, and the _urkan_ would never have accepted any refusal to obey him. Not certain of what to expect from a _nimir,_ she tensed to withstand more angry blows and being drug by the hair to wherever he wanted her to go.

Never had the difference between _uruk _and _nimîr _been made more clear but when her keeper simply shrugged and picked her up again and carried her into the collection of tents and finally into one. Once more, Inzilanî leaned into him, trying with all her might to show her gratitude for the little kindnesses that showed no sign of stopping. Why he was being so nice to her, she couldn't understand, but each demonstration of compassion was like a treasure.

Unlike the day before, the floor of the tent she'd been brought to this night was on rocky ground, and was uneven. The mattress lay on the ground instead of on the wooden bedstead, and there were no chairs. They would not have stood anyway, and Inzilanî didn't miss them. The _urkan_ had never taken time for such luxuries anyway. The ground had ever served a good many purposes.

Her keeper deposited her on the soft mattress, then gestured for her to lie back. Inzilanî was perfectly willing to service him now after the gentle care and good food he'd lavished on her already. It would hurt, but that was nothing new. Her hands went to the chain at her waist, finding the broken link and unhooking it so she could pull her tunic over her head. But before she had pulled the cloth more than halfway off, she heard Borongil's "_Baw!_" and stopped, letting the neck of the tunic slide back down over her head enough so she could stare at him in confusion. He was shaking his head again, and then making a gesture that looked as though he wanted her to roll over - to put her face-down onto the mattress.

Inzilanî shrugged and tugged the tunic back down. Her Umbari and _urkan_ owners had exercised all sorts of ways of pleasing themselves, some of which involved using her back passage as if she were a boy. It hurt desperately to roll, but she managed to not only face the mattress, but get her knees beneath her again and then began to slip her leggings down so that they wouldn't get torn or soiled, only to hear another choked "_Baw, _Inzilanî! _Baw!_" Again his "No's" astonished her, and she literally fell into the mattress in surprise. She turned her head to try to gaze at him as he stood over her. If _not_ that, what _did _he want?

Instead of seeing lust in his eyes, as she had expected, she saw him standing with his eyes closed, rubbing his hands together rapidly; and she frowned in confusion again. What did he think he was going to do with her if he didn't allow her to disrobe? Rubbing his hands together would not make her more accessible to him, and he needed to lose some of his own clothing as well. But instead, he knelt next to her, without having touched his armor at all, and reached out to her with both hands and laid them on each thigh.

Oh! Where his hands rested was warm and getting warmer! And his hands were moving, tracing sore muscles and pressing gently. Inzilanî closed her eyes, this time in ecstasy, as that warmth penetrated her legs. In just a very short while, the agonizing ache that had kept her from being able to move at all was soothed down to a very bearable level. Borongil moved his hands up to her rump, and then to her lower back, and she was sure she was dreaming. She must have fallen asleep, or fallen from that tall horse and hit her head after all. Everyone knew it wasn't proper for slaves to be pampered. _She_ was supposed to be pampering _him_, servicing _him_.

When at last he sat back on his heels, Inzilanî rolled and pushed herself up on her elbow and then to her knees. Her legs, backside and back still ached, but it wasn't a crippling agony anymore; she could move again. She gazed intently into those strangely glowing eyes, wishing there were some way to let him know that all she wanted to do was show him her gratitude. She had nothing more to offer him than herself, as poor a gift as that might be. She reached out and grasped one of his hands, finding it still warm, and put it on her forehead in the traditional gesture of submission.

But what she got from him wasn't instructions on how to please him, but a look filled with confusion. She gave a light snort of frustration and reached for his hand again, taking it from her head and putting it on her breast. Surely he would understand _that_!

"_Baw_, Inzilanî." The refusal was gentle but firm, and the deliciously warm hand was pulled away. Borongil rocked back and rose, wagging a finger in a manner she was learning meant that he wanted her to stay put. Remembering the gesture he had made to _Pharazôn_, she made it more submissive by pressing both her hands to her heart and bending low. Surprisingly, he gave her his one-handed bow in return, his face unreadable. Inzilanî wondered if she had somehow displeased him. She didn't want to.

She tucked her feet beneath her and settled back to await his return the way she'd always been taught, her mind now restored enough by the warm touch that had soothed her hurts that she could ponder her situation. These _nimîr_ were nothing like the stories told to her. They had been fierce, lethal and fear-inspiring warriors when demolishing the _urik_ camp, yes; but since that time, she had been treated with nothing but respect and kindness. For three years, ever since celebrating her thirteenth summer, she had been the property of others who wanted nothing more than to use her for their pleasure. But for the last day, she had been untouched – all efforts to offer herself willingly in return for the gentler treatment refused.

What did these creatures want of her that they kept her with them, if not _that_? Surely even they needed the release…

She wanted to know the answers to that question and many others, and she wanted to be able to ask and be understood. She folded her hands in her lap in readiness to practice patient waiting, as her Umbari owner had taught was expected of a well-trained slave. A plan sprang to mind as she waited, remembering Borongil's actions the night before. Through gesture and pointing, she would learn the language of the _nimîr_. If, as it seemed now, she was _not_ killed when they returned to their stronghold, she wanted to know some of their words.

Borongil was gone for a long time, and Inzilanî's eyes were beginning to droop towards sleep when the tent flap moved to allow him in again. He was carrying two bowls, and handed one down to her. Immediately, her stomach growled from the scents wafting up in the steam, which caused Borongil to blink in surprise. He put the second bowl down on the ground near the mattress and vanished again through the tent flap, only to return shortly thereafter with two of the metal cups, each filled to the brim with water. He handed one down to her and then seated himself on the mattress near her.

Inzilanî waited, watching curiously as he used his fingers to scoop the hot stew into his mouth, and then trying the food herself. It was pleasantly warm, and once again she tasted the succulent venison that had been cut into small bits and warmed in thickened juice, along with bits of vegetable she didn't recognize but ate hungrily anyway. There was no bread to clean the bowl when she had done, however, so she carefully ran her finger along the inner surface of the dish, gathering the last hints of juice. She licked her finger and then drank her water, and placed the empty cup into her empty bowl properly with a sigh of satisfaction.

When he chuckled at her as she stacked his used dishes with hers, remembering how her Umbari owner had insisted on things being done in a very distinct order and with precise movements, she decided that perhaps the moment was right to begin her lessons. She straightened, looked at him directly, held up her hand, tapped the back of it, and said, "_Pâ_?" and then reached out to tap his hand. She cocked her head, showing she was waiting for a reply. Borongil frowned for a moment, visibly confused. Inzilanî sighed, then pointed and listed several other body parts in a row in her language, and then returned to hand. "_Pâ_?" she said again, and then tapped to his hand and pointed to him.

His eyes narrowed. "_Cam,_" he answered slowly.

She tapped her own hand again. "_Cam_," she repeated carefully. She tapped her nose and tipped her head again. Did he know what she was wanting now?

Yes, the smile was back. "_Nem_," he replied immediately this time.

She tapped her hand again. "_Cam,_" and then her nose, "_Nem_." She touched her eyelid.

"_Hen,_" he supplied without delay.

She touched each part in turn. "_Cam. Nem. Hen._" Now for more important words. She shook her head and pointed to it as she did so. "_Baw_?" she asked, her head tipping again.

Borongil nodded. Inzilanî nodded back, pointed at her head as she nodded and then tipped it at him in obvious question. "_Na_," he supplied.

That made sense. He'd used both those words with her before. At least now she could ask permission and know whether it was given her or not.

And with that, she was wide awake and determined, all of her fatigue was gone. She would learn their language, just as she had eventually learned the ugly language of the _uruk_ out of self-defense. She smiled shyly at Borongil, hoping that he wouldn't tire of indulging her questions from now on, remembering the many painful consequences for mistakes she'd earned as she had learned the Black tongue of the Dark Lord. She needed to learn as many _nimîr _words as she could as quickly as she could, just in case her willingness to learn their ways could spell the difference between execution and being taken as a personal slave.

She had survived, when she'd had no hopes of managing it. She would not waste the miracle granted her by the spirits. She would do whatever she had to in order to learn the ways of the _nimîr_, and perhaps win herself a new, kinder, owner – maybe even Borongil.

She wouldn't mind belonging to him at all.


	4. Nightmares

Chapter 4 - Nightmares

_The _urkan's_ face swam in front of her until it was all she could see, a tug showed her that the manacles were back, and suddenly she was once again naked and chained to the stake driven into the ground. Rough, hurting hands tore at her, throwing her to the dirt and shoving her into a position where he could… The pain that rippled through her body at his entry brought her upright_ and awake with a scream, and then Inzilanî looked around in fear and confusion. The black tent, the manacles, the chains, the _urkan_ – they all had vanished. It had been a dream: a very bad dream. But where was she, really?

Oh.

This was the tent of the _nimir_ named Borongil, the one she had pestered until late into the evening for as many of his words as her mind could hold at one sitting, and he rolled up onto an elbow from the very far end of the large mattress on the floor to stare at her in worry. The light of the single candle flickered as the tent walls huffed out in the night wind. "Inzilanî?" he asked in a soft whisper.

The tears wouldn't stop, but she could be silent so that her keeper could return to his repose. She waved her hands at him, hoping he could understand that she was telling him not to be concerned, and then lay back into the mattress. She rolled away from him, putting her face against the cold canvas of the tent wall and huddling under the warm covers, and curled herself up into the smallest ball she could. She was safe in her waking hours with the _nimîr_, but she would never be free of the memories when the darkness of sleep closed in. Even if the _nimîr_ allowed her to remain, even if one of them took her as his own bed-comfort, she would never be free of the _uruk_. He would still use her in the night, just as he always had. Nothing had changed except that the pain he caused her now would be in her mind, not her body.

She shuddered at the memories that were just too close to ignore. How had she survived that? _WHY_ had she survived? Her _urkan _owner had not intended to do her any favors in letting her live until after the battle; no doubt the ending he'd had planned for her was one she was lucky to have avoided. But if the _nimîr_ did not keep her as spoils of their war, what would happen to her? Even now, she was still doomed; she would either remain a slave of the _nimîr_ or perish. Her breath hitched; there was no hope for her other than finding a _nimir _owner who would treat her with kindness sometimes.

"Inzilanî?" Borongil's whisper of her name came from much closer now, and she felt him moving the blankets back slightly and then a very light touch on her head, stroking her hair. More unfamiliar _nimîr_ words tumbled out, soft and gentle, almost comforting, words that were a sweet agony after years of nothing but slaps and growls and being thrown to the floor and… She tried to turn her mind from those more vicious memories, but she couldn't. Even in a soft bed, beneath warm covers, with nothing but a large hand stroking her hair and whispered and unintelligible words of comfort in her ear, she could only think of the many other nights that had come before. The screams she had heard in the distance as the others like her were tortured and killed to appease the Dark Lord on the eve of battle still echoed in her ears, and the memory of hurtful hands and worse things pressed in.

She felt movement next to her, as if Borongil had moved closer to her yet and then sat down, and then he began to sing softly. The beauty of his voice cut through the horror and ugliness that had so filled her mind, driving away the dark shadow of the _uruk_ and his many cruelties. It was a simple song, something that Inzilanî could imagine a father singing to a young child, but she didn't care. Her mind slowly filled with visions of green trees, tall grass blowing in the wind, and the sound of quick-flowing water. His fingers were still moving slowly over her head, smoothing down hair that had been mussed as she had tossed in her nightmare.

Slowly she emerged from under the covers, rolling over onto her back and staring at him as if seeing him for the first time, her tears not slowing at all but paining her much less as they fell. His grey eyes glittered at her in the dim light, his face softening into a gentle smile, but his caress didn't leave her and his song didn't stop. Warm fingertips brushed her forehead, and she closed her eyes at the kind of touch she had forgotten was even possible. His voice rolled over her and imparted the same level of comfort to her wounded soul as his warm hands had done to her agonized muscles only a few hours earlier. This was refuge, sanctuary. For this little time, in the middle of not being in control of anything that came her way anymore, she had found a place that was safe and someone who cared, just a little.

Inzilanî rolled again, this time to face Borongil, and reached out to him, suddenly hungry for comfort. When he shook his head very slowly, she altered the path her hand was taking until she had just the very bottom of the hem of his tunic between her fingers. She didn't ask for more, she didn't tug on the material at all, and she didn't try to touch _him_ in any way; all she wanted was something to hold onto, something tangible that could remind her that she was safe. "_Na_?" she asked in a whisper, her heart in her mouth as she prayed that he would permit this careful, distant touch.

"_Na_."

She wrapped her empty hand around herself and tucked it into her armpit beneath the covers, and then she closed her eyes again. The material of the tunic was soft leather, softer than anything she'd ever felt. It was strange, just as the _nimîr_ themselves were utterly foreign. And yet, that little bit of softness between her thumb and fingertips, and even the feeling of being totally lost in a world she no longer understood at all, held security.

As she released her fear, she couldn't help the sobs. It hurt to live, to survive; it hurt almost too much to bear.

Borongil's hand returned to her hair, and he resumed his song. Inzilanî rubbed her thumb and forefinger together and knew the softness of the leather again. Somewhere between the third and the fourth repetition of the song, she drifted into a deep and dreamless – and finally restful – sleep.

She awoke slowly at last as the cold of the morning air made her cheeks stiff. Oddly, she still had the stuff of Borongil's tunic between her fingers, and she opened her eyes to turn her head and study her keeper, and then flinched back hard. He had rolled onto his back, probably after finishing his song for the last time, but now lay motionless, his eyes staring sightlessly at the roof of the tent without blinking.

It wasn't fair! Why would the spirits want to steal Borongil's soul from him when she needed him so badly? Would _Pharazôn_ – or the other _nimîr_ warriors – kill her now, because he had died while taking care of her? Would they think _she_ killed him?

Inzilanî whimpered and yet crept closer. This one had been so kind to her; he had dispelled the nightmare of the _uruk_ and her former life with just a touch and a song. She could have served him in whatever manner he would have allowed for the rest of her days and been most content. Borongil was the first person since leaving her parent's hut that she'd actually come to care for, and now… Hot tears fell again, of loss and grief this time, and she leaned her head down against his chest, determined to mourn him properly.

And then gave a squeak of pure terror and scuttled away when that chest heaved and Borongil shifted and rolled up onto an elbow to face her. She pressed her back against the wall of the tent as the one she had begun to mourn as dead blinked and sat up to stare at her in surprise. What kind of creature was a _nimir_, she wondered, to sleep as one dead, and then awaken as if he had just taken a nap?

"Inzilanî?" he asked, putting out a hand to her. He pulled that hand back when she flinched again hard and recoiled against the tent wall. The confusion in his face was clear: he didn't understand what had frightened her so. How could she explain?

She pointed to him, and then at the mattress. Borongil tipped his head at her; he was paying close attention, struggling to understand. She held up a finger, then carefully lay herself down on her back, staring up at the tent roof without blinking for a long moment.

"_Ai_!" The exclamation was soft. He tapped her shoulder, and she turned her head to look at him. He pointed to her, then lay his two hands by his head, tipped it to the side, closed his eyes and made a sound like snoring. "_Na?_"

Inzilanî nodded. Yes, that was how she slept.

Borongil pointed to himself and shook his head. "_Uin_." He threw his head back and stared up at the ceiling and gave a soft snore.

Inzilanî stared. He _slept_ that way? She deliberately opened her eyes wide and thrust her chin out slightly, demanding confirmation. She finally had to tap his shoulder to get his attention and make the combination of expression and gesture again. He nodded again, and then rose. He reached out a hand to her. "_Tolo_."

Slowly she put out her hand to him at last, and he drew her to her feet. He pointed to the pile of clothing she had shed to put on the sleeping gown again, and she nodded. He wanted her to dress; she could do that. The tunic and leggings were warmer than the gown anyway, and the morning was cold. Then Borongil pointed to himself, then walked with his fingers, pointed to the tent flap, and finally wagged his finger at her. Again she nodded. He was going to leave, and she was to stay put. No doubt, he would expect her dressed when he returned.

"_Mae._" He smiled at her hopefully, and she gave him the submissive, double-handed salute to the heart. With that he turned and left the tent, brushing his long, silver hair back with a careless hand as he walked.

Her hand shook as she pulled the gown over her head and reached for the leggings. How was she ever to understand the _nimîr_? Were they too foreign for her?

Then she let herself feel relief. At least Borongil was alive and safe, and still cared about her a little. This would have to be enough to give her the strength to stay with him as long as she could, and for as long as he would allow.

oOoOo

The day was only half-gone when the sound of hooves at a full gallop brought the _nimîr_ forces to a halt. _Pharazôn_ rode out to meet the rider on a black horse that seemed to gleam; and they conferred for a long time, complete with gestures and waving hands that merely told Inzilanî how important the news was. With a nod, the warrior saluted _Pharazôn_ and rejoined the ranks of mounted warriors. _Pharazôn _eyed the group of riders that carried the captives and barked an order.

Borongil slid from the back of his horse and held up his arms to catch Inzilanî as she tried to follow him. She was stiff and sore, and the insides of her legs were chafing from rubbing against the horse for so many hours, but at least she could stand on her own this time. But the unexpected stop obviously had her keeper rattled. His hand closed around hers tightly, but it almost seemed like a possessive grasp for a change. He didn't drag her behind him either; he walked slowly and deliberately.

He led her to a protected copse of trees, where the other captives were being congregated. The boys milled nervously, but when Borongil tried to leave Inzilanî with them, she was very forcefully pushed away. He gazed at her worriedly, and she shrugged. Maybe someday, when she had more of his words, she could tell him about the traditions. If there ever _was_ a someday.

Still, the fact that she was being forced to be by herself clearly bothered the _nimir_, and Inzilanî watched him gaze back and forth for a long moment, thinking. Then he beckoned to her and, taking her by the hand, walked a short distance away with her. Once there was no chance that they would be observed, he reached to his belt and brought up a short dagger and pressed the hilt into her hand. When she stared up at him with her mouth open in shock, he pointed in the direction they had been riding. "_Yrch_."

Inzilanî heart sank to the soles of her feet. The _nimîr_ word was simply too close to "_urik_" to be anything but. Now the unexpected stop made sense: the _urkim_ were just over the next rise, and the _nimîr_ were preparing for battle again. She and the other captives were being left behind so as not to get in the way.

And then it hit: Borongil was riding into battle. He might not survive.

Not caring a bit that he didn't want to be touched, she reached out and caught at his arm and hugged it to her. She leaned her forehead against his upper arm and keened softly, wishing she knew how to tell him that she wanted him to return.

But instead of pushing her away, Borongil wrapped a large hand about her head and held her for a moment. Inzilanî felt her heart swell. He _did_ care!

Then he released her and fussed with something at his waist, and in a very short time had the sheath for the dagger in his hand. He unhooked her chain that served as a belt and slipped it on, then fastened it again and showed her how the dagger fit and made it easy for her to pull. His intention was clear: he was giving her the means to defend herself while he was gone.

He stood for a moment, looking at her, and then extended his hand. "_Tolo_."

Inzilanî nodded sadly and gave him her hand again. She had just about figured that word out: it meant "come." He led her back to the others but this time didn't try to force her to join them. Another quick cradle of her head, and then Borongil was striding away from her, heading back toward his mount. Already she could feel the heightened tension of the _nimîr_. At a soft command from _Pharazôn_, the whole army began to move quickly and vanished over the rise and into the forest.

She knew the moment the battle was engaged, because a roar arose from many voices, followed by the clash of metal. The pure notes of a trumpet split the air, and battle-cries of the _nimîr_ rang clearly.

She had no idea how long they had waited, listening to the endless cacophony of _urkim_ and _nimîr_, screaming in rage and pain, when suddenly she whirled at the sound of someone – or something – pushing through the brush in the direction of the copse. The bushes at the edge of the trees parted violently, and into the copse staggered an _urkan_.

She stared, and the hair rose on the back of her neck. The face of the _uruk_ was all too familiar: it was her owner, the _urkan_ who had left her behind. His armor was splattered with black gouts of blood, and the arm that didn't hold the sword dangled at an odd angle.

Inzilanî heard a strange sound, and turned just in time to see looks of absolute rage fill the faces of the other captives. As if of one mind, they ran at the _uruk_ and tackled him hard, startling him enough that he delayed starting to swing his wicked sword until there were two boys already hanging from that arm, deflecting its purpose. When the tall, grey figure teetered and then was brought to his knees by the attack of nearly twenty, she shook off her shock and finally rose.

The dagger slid out of its sheath easily, with a smooth, metallic sound. Something resembling a red curtain seemed to form before Inzilanî's eyes as her own rage at what this… this monster… had put her through surged like a white-hot flame. She walked slowly to where he struggled against the mob of much smaller former victims.

"Hold him!" she shouted in the Black tongue of the _uruk_, the only language she knew she could share even a little bit with the other captives. "He deserves to pay for all he did. He should have killed me, and he would have killed all of you!" The boys glanced back at her, and at the weapon she held, and then parted to let her through to the downed _uruk_. "Hold him!" she shouted again, and the others began to move.

The _urkan's_ wild red eyes finally caught sight of her, and the mouth gaped. "You!" he gasped, and then shouted, "I should have killed you with the others!" He struggled, but a single _urkan_ couldn't handle twenty boys with nothing to lose who were determined to keep him down. Down he went, onto his back; arms were pinned to the ground, and then legs.

"But you didn't," Inzilanî said, a sense of unreality creeping over her, her voice coming from farther and farther away. "That was a mistake." And she raised the dagger high.

_Vocabulary_

ai - (S) ah  
law - (S) no  
mae - (S) well, good

_na - (S) yes  
nimir - (S) elf  
nimîr - (S) elves  
Pharazôn - (A) Golden One  
tolo - (S) come (command form)_

_uin - (S) no (not so)  
urik - (A) orcs (obj. case)  
urkim - (A) orcs (nom. case)  
urkan - (A) orc (nom. case)  
uruk - (A) ord (obj. case)  
yrch - (S) orcs_


	5. The Monster Within

Chapter 5 - The Monster Within

The late afternoon wind came, as it always did, but Inzilanî didn't feel it. She didn't feel anything. Her eyes stared at the line of trees in the direction of the battle, but didn't really _see_ them. And in her hand, the dagger stabbed down over and over again, a small, wet squishing, sucking noise that only she could hear telling her that the stab had hit its mark. She didn't need to look; she knew what she was hitting, and why.

But it didn't matter anymore.

"Inzilanî?"

Slowly she blinked, and finally saw that the daylight was on the verge of failing. The din of battle was gone, and the silence in the copse was deafening. In front of her, Borongil squatted on the ground with his hand outstretched to her. The moment he saw that she was actually seeing him, he pointed to her hand.

Inzilanî frowned in confusion. If he took back the dagger, then she couldn't…

She looked down and felt her empty stomach twist painfully as she _truly _saw what she'd been stabbing at repeatedly. Next to the rock she was sitting on lay the crushed and bloodied head of an _uruk._ Whether it was that of her owner or one of the other two that had found them during the battle, she had no way of knowing; all of them, without exception, had met exactly the same fate. The second and the third had been easier to fell, however, for one of the taller boys had laid claim to her owner's sword, even though it was too big and almost too heavy for him to use with any skill at all. Four of them – the three tallest and strongest of the twenty and herself – now were armed and ready to take on the next monster to stumble over them.

The features that would have been the face of the _uruk _had long since been obliterated. All was black, stinking blood and lazy, blue-hued flies which buzzed and simply hopped out of the way of her dagger as it fell yet again. As if nothing were real, she tipped her head and wondered if anybody could tell that the mouth she kept stabbing into was filled with that with which he had tortured them – they all had tortured them – and that it had been the first part to be ripped from each living _uruk_. A mouth open in a scream of agony had been so easily filled by the same thing that had torn into _her _so many times after she was thrown to the ground.

At last, she roused herself enough to look around her. The copse was filled with _nimîr_, all of them staring in dismay at the mess that had once been a peaceful, beautiful place, some already carefully moving to take charge of a stunned captive boy. Black blood was everywhere: on the _nimîr_, on the captives, on the grass, on the tree trunks, on the rocks, on the mutilated body parts and internal organs that were scattered about like melting hailstones, only identifiable by size and shape, and even then only sometimes. Inzilanî felt the crawl of the flies on her face and hands, no doubt enjoying the meal of gore that covered her from head to toe.

How had this happened? She could only vaguely remember her owner bursting through the underbrush, and her rage ripping through her. When had…

"Inzilanî." Borongil's voice called her back to the present moment, and she blinked as if just awakening all over again. Her _nimir_ keeper's armor was splattered with black blood, and his silver hair hung limp and heavy with mess. But those grey eyes were still filled with starlight, and now infinite sadness. Slowly he inched forward until, finally, he put his hand on hers, stilling the mindlessly mechanical stabs and then prying the hilt from her frozen fingers.

As if the dagger had been all that had held her together, Inzilanî sagged the moment it was taken from her, sickened and yet numb. Her mind twisted, trying to avoid remembering and not being able to escape the visible reminders of what she and the others had done. She stared with horrified fascination at the faceless head covered in blood, dust and dead leaves, unable to understand where the person who had shoved bloody genitalia into an open mouth until the _uruk_ choked as well as screamed had come from. It hadn't been her.

It _couldn't_ have been.

Large hands slipped under her arms, and she was lifted to her feet. Were it not for the arm that slid around her and pulled her close, Inzilanî wouldn't have been able to stand – or walk. Her feet dragged on the stony ground, and her hands dangled uselessly from her arms. Her gaze caught on one of the larger lumps of flesh as she passed the edge of the trees, and suddenly her stomach twisted again painfully, sickeningly. She bent double and began to heave, only there was nothing in her stomach to lose.

A deep voice sounded from close by, and she noticed that _Pharazôn_ had come close; and it was almost a relief to slip to her knees and press her face into the dust that she hadn't quite been able to vomit on. She couldn't even look into his face – she no longer had the right to look upon such an elevated person – and she definitely didn't want _him_ looking into _hers_. What else could he see when he looked at her but a monster: someone capable of…

Borongil's voice sounded saddened and frustrated, and _Pharazôn_ spoke softly to him and then walked away. She felt her keeper's large hands slip beneath her arms again and lift, but this time he didn't even attempt to make her stand on her own. Soon enough, he was lifting her up to the back of the gore-splattered grey and then springing up _behind_ her this time. His arms surrounded her, pulling her close, as the horse set off on a smooth walk. Inzilanî tucked her hands in and huddled against the filthy metal plates that covered his cuirass, keening softly, but she could find no peace, no refuge. Every time she closed her eyes, all she could see was the blood and the gore and the mess and remember how the curtain of red had fallen over her eyes, setting loose the monster that lived within her.

Inzilanî dozed fitfully, awakening before any real sleep could take her, the entire night that Borongil kept her on the horse and moving through the forest. She was cold, and the gore that had spattered her face and hands was sticky and stank. She shivered, and felt the horse beneath her halt smoothly for a moment, until something warm was wrapped around her. Then they were moving again.

Borongil was still being kind to her, and it made no sense. She had proven herself no better than the _urik_ themselves. Her memories were distant, as if she had watched something happening to someone else, but they were clearer now. She had taken the dagger – something he had gifted her with in order to protect herself – and used it to deliberately and with great pleasure inflict the most intense amount of pain and suffering that she could on a being that was not threatening her. Indeed, by the time she'd gotten to them, each _urkan_ had been disarmed and rendered harmless by the actions of others. What was more, nothing she had done to any of the _uruk_ while alive had been done quickly or cleanly. No, she had reveled in the volume and desperation of the screams. She had put herself where the spurts of black blood could hit her in the face and rejoiced. In the end, she had helped throw the bits and pieces into the air at random and then stomp on them in a horrific dance of victory and revenge.

It _had_ been her, after all.

The lesson was clear: somewhere, while in the possession of the _uruk_, she had _become_ an _uruk_. She had betrayed the kindnesses she had been shown by the _nimîr_, and she deserved nothing more or less than the same death that had been dealt to the _urik_ with grey skin and red eyes. If she had any honor at all – which, of course, she clearly didn't – she would take care of the matter herself. But she couldn't reach or handle Borongil's sword, and she had no idea where he had hidden the dagger.

And so she huddled against Borongil, the one she wanted desperately to claim her as his slave so that she would never have to fear again, powerless to do the right thing and end her own life. Her keeper was taking her somewhere, exactly where no longer mattered. Wherever it was, it would be better than where she deserved to be: on the ground, dead, her lifeblood soaking into the dust and her parts scattered.

Slowly the sky lightened with a new day, and the sounds of running water could be heard in the distance. The horse's pace picked up, and they moved faster through the warming forest to finally slow and halt again on the banks of a swift-running stream. Borongil threw his leg over the side of the horse and slipped to the ground without dropping Inzilanî, and carried her to a patch of green grass in the sun and set her down. He waggled his finger at her, telling her to stay put, and returned to his mount. From a pair of bags that Inzilanî hadn't noticed draped across the horse's back, he withdrew something: clean clothing.

He put his burden on the ground nearby and then squatted down so he could face her. He lifted a blood-encrusted wad of hair on both of them and wrinkled his nose, then wiped a finger down her cheek and over his filthy armor and then rubbed that finger onto the grass with a look of distaste. Inzilanî slowly nodded. They were both filthy and disgusting. He nodded and then pointed to the stream and began mimicking the act of washing his face, then tipped his head. She gazed at the water thoughtfully. Would water ever completely wash away the filth with which she was stained?

Still, Borongil deserved an answer, and so she nodded tiredly. "_Na._" Even if she deserved death, she had declared herself the property of Borongil. He wanted her to wash herself, so wash she would.

"_Mae,_" he said with a quick nod and rose, extending his hand down to her. "_Tolo_."

Inzilanî allowed the cloak in which he had wrapped her fall away and then let him pull her to her feet. She walked with him to the very edge of the water and then crouched, dabbling her hand in the clear, icy water and watching the blood slowly rinse away from her fingers. When she looked up, Borongil had already stripped off the metal-adorned leather and stood clad in nothing but some finely-woven protective undergarments, the tunic of which he stripped away as well and tossed onto a clean patch of grass. He crouched then by the water and splashed water up into his face and over his head, rinsing away the blood just the way it had eventually rinsed from her hand.

She looked down at herself. The tunic and leggings he had given her were ruined; there would be no chance of getting the mess out of them to make them wearable again. She sighed, resigning herself to once more wearing nothing but a blanket or, if Borongil was generous and charitable, his cloak. Her fingers shook as she unhooked the chain belt and let it drop with a clink, and then toed off the ruined boots so that she could pull at the gore-soaked leggings. When she had pulled the tunic over her head as well, she walked naked into the stream, disregarding entirely the icy knives of freezing water that sliced painfully at her, and sat down to begin rubbing at the black mess on her skin.

The more she rubbed, though, the tighter the stain seemed to cling to her skin, and she gave a desperate sob and scrubbed hard at her hands, her arms, her face. Borongil would no doubt leave her if she couldn't get clean, and she wouldn't blame him in the least if he did; but she didn't want to get left behind, even if that was what she deserved. She sobbed and tore at her hair, pulling at where the clots of blood had congealed her hair into ugly clumps that made her _look_ like the _uruk_ she was. No matter how hard she worked, there was always some more left behind.

Inzilanî hadn't been paying attention, because strong arms suddenly surrounded her, stopping her frantic actions, and a gentle voice in her ear said, "_Baw,_ Inzilanî. _Sidh_." The words continued to tumble out, but Inzilanî's sobs wouldn't let her hear them.

"I'm nothing but an _uruk_!" she cried in her own tongue, knowing full well that Borongil wouldn't understand a word of what she said. "I killed him. I killed all three of them. I wanted to hurt them as much as I had been hurt, and I did. I did to them what they had done to me, and I am no better than them! I will never be clean, never be free. You should let me die!"

But the arms around her wouldn't loosen. Inzilanî screamed and sobbed out her hatred and her remorse and her grief and her pain and her desolation, and the arms never moved. And eventually, at long last, all she had energy to do was sag against his hold on her, weeping as if her heart were shattered and clinging to him, amazed that he was allowing this at all. At last Borongil moved, slipping an arm beneath her knees and lifting her from the icy water to carry her to the sunny grass on the banks of the stream.

Numb inside and out, she was motionless beneath his ministrations as he used the clean side of the cloak that he'd had her wrapped in to dry her, and then carefully and gently pulled the fresh tunic over her head and steered arms into sleeves. He had trousers for her this time on which he could tighten a drawstring so they wouldn't fall off, although he rinsed and then cinched the chain about her waist again after rolling the bottoms of the legs so they wouldn't drag on the ground. And then he wrapped her back up in the cloak, clean side against her skin and clothing, waggled his finger at her, telling her to stay put, and moved to dress himself once more, this time in tunic and leggings. Finally he took the dirty tunic that had been worn beneath the leather, wet it in the stream, and began the job of scrubbing the blood from his armor.

Inzilanî gave a heavy sigh and shed the cloak. She was a slave, and if her new owner would not have her for bed comfort, then performing tasks for him so that he didn't have to do them himself was her only purpose in life. She rose and tapped his shoulder and held out her hand, wordlessly demanding the wet cloth. With wide eyes, Borongil handed it over to her and moved aside, and she crouched and began her work. Perhaps if she had a task that she could focus on, she wouldn't have to remember anything. She dipped the cloth in the cold water again and scrubbed hard. The blood of an _uruk_ didn't belong on the armor of a _nimir_. She would see this armor sparkling in the sun again, as if that worn by _Pharazôn_ himself.

Until she could do what was needed, she would do what was required. She was a slave; it was time she started acting like one again.

_Vocabulary (A) Adúnaic (S) Sindarin_

baw - (S) don't, no  
mae - (S) yes, good, well  
nimir - (A) elf  
nimîr - (A) elves  
Pharazôn - (A) Golden One  
sidh - (S) peace  
tolo - (S) come (imperative)  
urik - (A) orcs (obj. case)  
urkan - (A) orc (nom. case)  
uruk - (A) orc (obj. case)


	6. Arrival

Chapter 6 - Arrival

Inzilanî stared around her, dumbfounded. _This_ was the source of the smoke that had hung heavily over the northern horizon for days. It had to be. It was such a change from the forest they'd been riding through – even with the occasional hisses from the Dark Lord's "gifts" to the _nimîr _ – that coming upon it the way they did was almost a physical blow. The sight of such devastation was enough to pull her from the depths of her own misery for a moment.

The forest simply… ended; or, at least, the living forest ceased to exist. Most of the trees still smoldered, bare and abbreviated limbs rising pitifully into the air from the ground or from where they clung futilely to charred trunks, the smoke everywhere still rising and giving the ash-covered landscape a nightmarish quality. And in every direction Inzilanî looked, there were the signs of battle. Gouges in the dirt and darkened pools of what could only have been blood abounded, weapons, sometimes visibly charred, lay strewn and abandoned, although the bodies had vanished. Inzilanî felt her hackles rise slightly; were the legends true? Were the _nimîr_ nothing but dreams that evaporated like steam when their bodies died? Perhaps that was why they slept like corpses, staring sightlessly up at night? And where were the _urkim_? They, she knew all too well now, did _not_ simply evaporate when dead.

Borongil made a soft sound, and Inzilanî recognized it immediately as a keen of pain and loss. How many of his friends, his comrades, had he lost in this huge, obscene battle in the midst of an inferno? Was it any wonder that _Pharazôn_ and his warriors pursued the _urik_ still so relentlessly?

There was nothing she could do to comfort him except lean her forehead into his back and tighten her hold around his waist. War was horrible. The _urkim_ were monstrous, vicious and obscene. She felt him pat her hands at his belt, and knew that he at least understood her sympathy.

The sound of the horse's hooves moving through the ash and debris was muffled, as if the whole world were saddened by what had happened here. Inzilanî quietly chanted a prayer to the spirits to renew this place quickly, that this evil not be allowed to last or scar what should have been and should have remained untouched. In a very quiet part of her heart that refused to be silent, she rejoiced that she had taken some small part in avenging this horror; and the very thought bubbling up into her mind was enough to make her stomach twist again.

The desolation went on for the better part of the morning, stretching in stark black and grey and white for as far as the eye could see. She was grateful that Borongil evidently had no intention of stopping to examine the damage, because the sadness of this place was overwhelming.

Finally, however, the darkness that was living trees once more closed around them, and even the horse seemed to pick up the pace, grateful to be away from the death that had happened behind them. Soon, they came to and began following a well-used path through the forest, and the horse sped again. Inzilanî imagined that maybe they were drawing near a _nimîr_ city or town, as she began to hear birdcalls that were unlike any birds she had heard in the area. She tried to pull back into herself, retreat from the life that was once again surrounding her, but it was harder now.

The trees seemed to thin a bit, letting light fall through to the ground. Inzilanî began to hear voices, some of them singing, some of them calling back and forth. She looked around, but didn't see a single _nimir_. Her curiosity piqued, she craned and stretched, in case they were all in front of them yet, only to see nothing out of the ordinary. But this was anything but ordinary, and the hair on the back of her neck was starting to rise in dread. Then she felt Borongil chuckle, pat her hands to get her attention, and then point – up.

Her mouth dropped open; _nimîr_ live in the trees?

Several of the larger trees around them had platforms nestled into their branches, and faces – all of them smiling – were peering down at them. No wonder the loss of the forest had made Borongil so sad! She looked around and found a few more faces looking down at them. Would _she_ have to climb up into one of those trees too? Is that what Borongil called home?

The path they were on curved around a huge boulder, and then Borongil brought the horse to a halt. When he slipped down from his mount and held up his hands to help her get down as well, Inzilanî found herself at the mouth of a huge cave, with stone doors thrown wide open and waiting.

"Borongil!"

Inzilanî stared at the beautiful woman who came running from the darkness within the cavern to leap into her keeper's waiting arms. No wonder he didn't need a bed comfort slave, if _that_ was his mate! She folded her hands and trained her eyes to the ground to give their very passionate embrace its due privacy, reminding herself harshly that she was a slave, not a _nimir_. She was a spoil of war, nothing more or less. It was enough that she had been fed and clothed and treated with kindness while in his keeping.

No doubt, her service would be overseen by the beautiful _nimir _lady from now on, who would not want her anywhere near her mate. Inzilanî understood that completely. Borongil was a kind and noble person; she was a fool for having thought that he could have cared about _her_ when such loveliness awaited him at his home.

"Inzilanî?" Her owner's voice called to her, and she owed him her undivided attention. She took two steps toward him and then stopped the proper distance away, looking up at him for a short moment to show that she was his to command, and then looked back at her bare toes on the ground. He would make her understand what he wanted of her.

"Malheril," he said, and she looked back up briefly to see that he was indicating the lovely lady next to him. That must be her name, and it would be wise for her to remember it. Malheril, she rolled around a few times in her mind to affix it firmly to the face. Malheril would be obeyed without question or hesitation from now on.

But now, it was time to show her owner's lady the proper deference. She let her eyes meet those of the lady for just a very tiny moment, and then came to kneel in front of her with her gaze respectfully lowered. When the gesture of ownership wasn't given as it should have been, she looked up just long enough to locate the lady's hand and place it on her head, and when the correct time had passed, she put her face into the dust at the lady's feet.

The _nimîr_ words flowed back and forth between Borongil and his lady, and Inzilanî forced herself not to listen. Even if she had understood what they were saying, it would have been disrespectful if she didn't turn her attention elsewhere. Her Umbari owner had taught her _that_ lesson well, and she knew better than to want to repeat those beatings again. But the large hands of her keeper slipped easily under her arms, lifting her and hanging on again until she put her feet down to hold herself again. "_Baw,_ Inzilanî," he said gently.

"Inzilanî?" The fingers that touched the bottom of her chin were even gentler than Borongil's had ever been, more than even _Pharazôn's_ had been, and she found herself staring into eyes the color of a warm summer sky. Once more she discovered that the disdain she expected to see to be totally lacking, with shock and curiosity and shy friendliness present in its stead. Dark hair floated long over shoulders and down the lady's back. Confused, she whimpered and pulled away a little, looking to Borongil in abject apology and fear that she had offended. The lady _did_ understand that she was a slave, didn't she?

Her keeper's hand came down gently on her shoulder, and Inzilanî froze instantly, truly frightened. What did he want? What was she supposed to do now? Had she made a mistake?

Again the _nimîr_ words rattled in her ears, but then the lady did something that was completely outside Inzilanî's experience: she abruptly pulled her from beneath Borongil's hand and surrounded her shoulders, putting Inzilanî off-balance for a moment until she was leaning into the lady's skirts. The lady was… embracing her? What was happening? She turned and whimpered her fright to Borongil, not knowing what else to do.

Her keeper seemed to understand. He held up a finger while quickly spoken words fell from his lips that had the lady now obviously hesitating. Inzilanî turned a bit more toward him, giving him her full attention. He pointed to her, and to the lady, and then clasped his hands together twice. He tipped his head; did she understand? She gave a cautious glance up at the lady and then looked back at him in confusion even as she slowly offered up her hand. The lady's hold on her shoulders vanished, but Inzilanî's hand was immediately taken in a firm and gentle grasp.

Borongil nodded. "_Na_," he said, and then repeated his pointing to both her and his lady, then walked his fingers, and finally pointed into the cavern. Inzilanî followed his gesture, not exactly happy about entering into dark, unknown places. He touched her cheek to regain her attention, then pointed to himself as well as her, walked his fingers and pointed again to the cavern.

She wasn't entirely certain what he was trying to tell her, but she could only hope that it meant that he would be coming with his lady in taking her into the darkness. She nodded slowly. He held up a finger and walked back over to where another _nimir_ had control of the grey horse to retrieve the bundles that had draped the horse's back. Tossing one over his shoulder, he put out a hand to her.

This wasn't the way a slave was to be treated, Inzilanî kept telling herself, but there was no way for her to remind either of these tall, beautiful, terrifying creatures of that. All she could do was put her hand into that of her keeper and turn her gaze to the darkness of the huge cave. Suddenly she wasn't sure which was worse: staying in the darkness, or living in the trees.

oOoOo

Inzilanî would have whimpered again, but she knew that it would do no good. Malheril was waiting, and Inzilanî knew what was wanted. Still, she had no idea why her mistress wanted her to take off her clothing; did the _nimîr_ women do things… No. The look in her mistress' eyes showed no signs of that kind of desire.

She slowly pulled the tunic over her head, and then untied the drawstring on the trousers and stepped out of them. Malheril blinked as her eyes found the scars from the many bite marks that covered her chest, and then frowned and touched the leather bands at her wrists. Inzilanî sighed and untied them as well, then unwrapped the soft cloth that protected the sores. She bent to do the same to the leather and cloth at her ankles.

But she wasn't ready to hear Malheril gasp, or feel the very soft touch of the _nimir_ to one of the less healed weals on her back. Inzilanî had never seen her own back, but she could imagine what it looked like. She'd seen the backs of other bed comfort slaves to the _urkim_. At the time, she had imagined hers was at least as bad, if not worse. After all, she'd lasted nearly two years with an _uruk_ who often used to beat her until she was bloody and he thoroughly aroused before… She closed her eyes and swallowed hard to dismiss the memory. She was insecure enough in this very strange place, she didn't need to revisit old horrors.

That very gentle touch traced the worst of the scars – the one when the Umbari captain had nearly killed her with his sword while drunk – and then Malheril moved in front of Inzilanî and crouched to take her face between her hands.

Inzilanî frowned in worry, for the mistress' eyes were filled with tears. Why should she cry over hurts that were long healed, given to a slave as training or punishment? How could she tell this strange woman that those didn't matter anymore? Malheril spoke softly and yet vehemently, and her hands stroked back Inzilanî's hair. Whatever she was saying, the _nimir _woman felt it very strongly, but Inzilanî had no idea how to respond. So she stood, not quite shaking, waiting in dread for the next command.

She did stare, however, when she was led to a large vat-looking thing that was filled with steaming water, and Malheril pointed first to her, and then at the vat. Inzilanî swallowed hard. The _urkim_ had preferred their man-flesh raw; did the _nimîr_ cook them instead? Malheril dabbled her hand in the water, and it wasn't red or burned looking when she pulled it out. She beckoned, pointed and spoke, and somewhere in the tumble of _nimîr_ words, Inzilanî heard, "_tolo_."

That word she understood.

Her new mistress wanted her in the vat.

Certain that she was going to be very sorry, Inzilanî climbed into the water and stood, looking at her mistress in frightened confusion, grateful that the water was only pleasantly warm on her skin. Then Malheril made a funny movement with her body, and then pointed at the vat; and Inzilanî stared in shock. She wanted her to _sit_ in the water?

Then the long training kicked in. The mistress had told her to sit.

Inzilanî sat, grateful that the water was only up to her chest, her hands again folded in her lap as she awaited the next order. After a few moments, however, she released an involuntary sigh that spoke of the warmth penetrating her, easing those sores and hurts that still bothered her. Her mistress picked up a large cup and dipped it in the water, put her hand up to Inzilanî's forehead, and then dumped the warm water over her head, somehow managing to keep the water from Inzilanî's eyes.

Stunned and shocked, Inzilanî turned to glare at her, but found her frown answered with a gentle smile and hands that had a white paste spread across them that Malheril then worked into the dripping hair with firm fingers. Were the behavior not so odd, Inzilanî might have enjoyed it; the fingers worked the hair all over her head and seemed determined to keep any of the white stuff from slipping down into Inzilanî's eyes. When the cup dipped again into the warm water to rinse everything away, Inzilanî watched traces of black drip down her shoulders, imbedded in the white foam.

Oh. She still stank of _uruk_ blood. She hadn't done a good enough job in the stream. She had offended the mistress.

She struggled to rise so she could prostrate herself at Malheril's feet in apology, but a firm hand at her shoulder held her in place in the vat, and then a finger wagged in front of her nose. Inzilanî knew that sign and stopped moving immediately. Her mistress wanted her to stay put, and she would obey.

Next, Malheril moved around the tub and to a small table where there were an assortment of small vials, chose one, and then poured some oil onto the water that, when heated, smelled of fresh flowers. Inzilanî's eyes flew open; she knew this scent! Long ago, in her village, she had collected the little purple flowers sometimes for her _ammê_. The sudden memory of a gentle smile and warm arms brought tears. She would never see that smile or feel the warmth of that embrace again until she had joined her ancestors.

Malheril had a soft cloth over her hand now, and wet it in the warm water and then began to wipe down those parts of Inzilanî's body that weren't below the surface of the water. It was a slow, soothing process that made Inzilanî feel very strange on the inside, so certain she was that slaves were _not_ supposed to be treated this way! She was not a _nimir_ child, but someone who had been won in battle and brought back to clean and do whatever else might be asked of her. Once again she found herself wondering if Borongil had informed his mate that he brought her a pet, not a slave.

It made no difference. She was beckoned out of the vat, dried with a very warm and soft cloth, made to put on strange, thin garments over which other, much finer clothing was to be worn. Her feet were pressed into thin slippers, and her hair combed out while Malheril clicked her tongue in dismay. Inzilanî couldn't tell if the mistress wished that her hair were longer or shorter; she guessed that she would discover this eventually – _if_ she stayed that long, that was.

From the way Malheril held her hand, however, she had a feeling that her life had just taken another, very huge, turn.

_Vocabulary (A) Adúnaic (S) Sindarin_

_ammê - (A) mother_

_baw - (S) no, don't_

_mae - (S) good, well_

_na - (S) yes_

_nimir - (A) elf_

_nimîr - (A) elves_

_Pharazôn - (A) Golden One_

_tolo - (S) come (imperative)_

_urkim - (A) orcs (nom. case)_

_uruk - (A) orc (obj. case)_


	7. Object of Interest

Chapter 7 - Object of Interest

It was very dark, and Inzilanî was having trouble holding her eyes open. Everything was wrong: she was wearing clothing that was finer than anything even the Chieftain's daughter possessed back home; she had been told to sit at the table with Borongil and his lady and eat of their food, which was tastier than even the venison, as if an honored guest; she had been led by the hand to a chamber in which there was a narrow bed and told through gestures that she would sleep there; been told to change into another simple sleeping gown, and the fine gown laid aside apparently to be worn again in the morning; and finally and most incomprehensibly, tucked in beneath warm blankets by the mistress herself.

And now, in the dark, reality demanded to reassert itself. Inzilanî _knew_ she was a slave. She _knew_ she should be sleeping on a thin pallet at the foot of the master and mistress' bed, ready to do their slightest bidding at whatever hour of the day or night she was needed. She _knew_ that she should be eating scraps, the bits and pieces of the fine food that the master and mistress didn't want. She _knew_ these things, and yet the _nimîr_ who owned her now evidently _didn't_.

What was more, she _knew_ she should be dead, that she had no business being claimed by the _nimîr_, not even as a slave treated with proper strictness and discipline. She had… she had… Her eyes slipped shut, despite her best efforts.

_"You! I should have killed you with the others!"_

_"But you didn't. That was a mistake."_

_The dagger made short work of shredding the trousers while the _uruk_ roared with rage at the indignity of being helpless against mere slaves. She looked down at that most offensive part of him and then looked at the boys sitting on his legs. Their slowly growing grins of encouragement were all the incentive she had needed. She ran her finger along the edge of the dagger and found it sharper than anything the _uruk_ owned. It would do nicely. _

_And the way those evil, red eyes widened when they realized what she intended made her heart beat all that much faster._

_The dagger fell the first time, and the _urkan_ began screaming…_

_And suddenly everything shifted, and it was __**she**__ who was on the ground, and the _urkan_ was on top of her, that part of him was again ripping into her viciously, making __**her**__scream, over and over and…_

"Inzilanî!"

She flinched at the touch of gentle hands catching at her as she flailed, and she fought the strength in them until their reality penetrated the dream and forced it to evaporate back into the swirling black mess that was her memories. Frightened out of her wits, heart still pounding hard from the nightmare, Inzilanî stared at what she saw. Standing in the doorway, clad in a sleeping gown much like her own, Malheril held a single candle high with a shocked and horrified look on her face; it was Borongil, though, who sat on the edge of her bed and finally relaxed his hold on her as he saw she was seeing him again.

"_Sidh, nethben._" His hand smoothed over her brow as it had the last time she had had one of these dreams. The _nimîr_ words that followed were soft, intended to calm. Inzilanî lay very still, the tears from the dream still running down the sides of her face into her ears, completely humiliated and scared now. She had awakened the master and mistress, no doubt disturbed their reunion – surely they would have been enjoying each other after such a dangerous and upsetting separation – and brought them to her side to stop the racket.

Why weren't they beating her for her audacity? Even _Attô_ would have cuffed her hard for such behavior, if it had interrupted his time with _Ammê_!

Finally her wits and her training kicked in again, and she scuttled around Borongil and then off the little bed to the floor, where she planted her face in the soft pile of the rug. She was sorry, so very sorry! She would try harder not to sleep anymore, she decided; when she slept, these things got away from her control. Maybe moving to the floor from the bed, after the mistress left her, would help…

The moment she heard Borongil's frustrated sigh, she knew she had made yet another mistake. The _nimir_ didn't like it when she prostrated herself and kept picking her up when she did, even though she had been beaten bloody by two previous owners for _not_ doing so quickly enough or gracefully enough. Immediately she sat back on her heels, dismay at her mistake making her almost nauseous. She thought for a moment as she studied the pattern of the rug, then folded her hands over her heart in the salute that she had learned from him and bowed deeply, not quite putting her face to the floor.

Even that wasn't good enough, she realized, when Borongil's strong hands simply picked her up and brought her back to the bed and – to her absolute horror – onto his lap. Malheril moved as well, parking herself on the edge of the bed next to her mate, and suddenly Inzilanî found herself embraced by _both nimîr_! Borongil began to sing, and Malheril joined in only a few moments later. Inzilanî was pulled against his chest, regardless he wore no shirt or tunic, and Malheril's fingers toyed with her hair.

Now she was _certain_ that her new owners didn't understand who she was – _what_ she was. The worst part of it was that there was no way for her to tell them. She cursed the spirits and Destiny itself for giving her to someone who didn't know _not_ to treat her as a slave. Now she would have to tolerate the kind of care that wasn't supposed to happen to people like her until she had enough of their words to tell them of their error. She shuddered to think of their anger and retribution when they discovered their mistakes. She would pay later for these kindnesses, and pay dearly.

Helpless at the moment, however, all she could do was lean against Borongil and softly weep, trying very hard not to feel the way his arms had tightened around her, or the way Malheril's fingers slipped through her hair and cupped her face. It was so hard to remember her place, when her place seemed to be so far away.

oOoOo

Inzilanî worked her cloth with the skill of long practice, easing the spot of dullness from the otherwise shining silver platter. Her morning had been just as frustratingly contrary as the evening before – climbing into clothing too good for her, eating with the master and mistress at their table again, having the mistress insist on combing her hair for her and having it left loose about her shoulders except for a tiny braid back from both temples that kept the rest from her face – but she had finally stumbled onto a task that they didn't deny her.

She watched the _nimîr _out of the corner of her eye, curious about them but unwilling to be too blatant in her interest. She knew the penalty for that. They, in turn, sat in the comfortable chairs near the hearth, watching her without shame, as was their right; and they spoke their words so quickly, though, that she resigned herself to needing a long time to learn enough of them to be able to say anything important. Still, at least they were allowing her to be more herself and make herself useful to them.

There! The platter now gleamed uniformly, and she carefully replaced it on its shelf after using the cloth to quickly dust around its place. Ah! That was something _else_ she could do that maybe wouldn't anger them. She looked around the room that was the more public area of the quarters they occupied. There were plenty of shelves and small nooks and crannies that would attract dust. With a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure she wasn't making them angry, she wielded the cloth over the graceful carvings that were the sides of the shelf the platter sat on, not sure if she were doing any good or not. There wasn't much dust there; perhaps there were other slaves that she just hadn't met yet?

A knock on their door made her flinch and drop to her knees, folding the cloth carefully and laying it over the top of her thighs and then folding her hands over it and lowering her gaze to the rug. Slaves were to remain unobtrusive when guests were present, and she was partly behind a chair…

"Inzilanî, _tolo si_."

She didn't know the last word, but the first one she understood. She tucked her cloth into a pocket she'd discovered in the skirt of her new gown, rose from her knees with all the grace that her Umbari owner had forced her to learn and walked over to her new owner. Without looking at him, she kneeled before him and gave him the deep salute of his people, then sat up while keeping her eyes trained on the rug. This action she could understand quite well. Owning a new slave was a jump in status, so it made sense for Borongil to want to show her off.

She heard her owner sigh and didn't understand it. Was she not graceful enough? Had she not sat up fast enough? She knew that the _nimîr_ seemed to possess a natural grace; she was beginning to think that there was no way that she would ever match that. But he couldn't tell her, and she had no way of guessing; so she remained utterly still, waiting for her next command.

The _nimîr_ words trickled from the newcomer's lips almost like song, and Inzilanî wished she dared look up to see just who would possess such a musical voice. Both her owner and his lady answered, and Inzilanî deliberately turned her mind away from trying to follow even the tones of voice. That would have been disrespectful too.

"Inzilanî." Again Borongil called for her attention, and this time she did look up at him. He held out his hand. "_Cam lîn_."

He wanted her… hand? Training made her offer her hand immediately, no matter the questions in her mind. Borongil pushed the delicate sleeve material back from her wrists and turned to the guest, and Inzilanî again looked down at the rug. The bandaging over her sores from the manacles was gently removed, and then a knowing but strange hand took charge of hers. Only the greatest discipline kept her from flinching back and pulling her hand away; this was a guest, to be offered any and all privileges. If her owner gave her hand to him, then it was his to keep for as long as he wished.

Then the other hand was retrieved from her lap without command, and again the bandaging removed. The knowing fingers of the guest touched the one sore that had been the most painful as if he knew how much it hurt, and the discussion was one-sided for a moment. At last, both of her hands were released, and she returned them to their properly folded state on her thighs.

Inzilanî felt Borongil's hand land on her head and remain there, warm against her hair, and she closed her eyes for a moment. No slave should be offered such caring, for it only made her want more, and she knew that her owner belonged to Malheril. She even was coming to like her mistress. The two of them were so kind to her.

"Inzilanî, _tolo si_."

This time it was her mistress, and when Inzilanî looked up, unsure of what was wanted, she blinked in surprise to see Malheril patting the couch cushion next to her. She couldn't mean that – to have her sit _next_ to her in the presence of guests? But the mistress smiled and nodded. "_Na. Tolo si._"

A command was to be obeyed, even if it violated every rule that had been beaten into her over the last years. Inzilanî rose to her feet, again using every last bit of grace that had taken her so long to learn, and perched herself next to the mistress, carefully keeping her gaze firmly fixed on the rug. Just because the _nimîr_ around her had forgotten or never learned proper behavior didn't mean she could set it aside herself.

But evidently Malheril had had a reason to call her over, for the mistress' fingers made quick work of undoing the laces of her gown at the back and gently pulled the material away. The guest had half-risen to his feet, but Inzilanî clearly heard the gasp. She wondered if the guest would now tell her owners what all the scars truly meant: that Inzilanî was a lazy slave who was slow to learn and had needed frequent beatings. Her face flushed, and she had to work not to cry.

Once more she felt fingers following that weal that still itched in its healing, touching the curved scar that went from just below her shoulder blade to nearly her tailbone. And then the gown was being closed and the laces tightened again. The stranger's hand cupped her cheek and then lifted her head, forcing her to look at him. Below dark brows and hair that looked like the finest silk, his eyes were a solemn grey, but they held kindness and a deep sadness. His thumb stroked her cheek, perhaps as a gesture of good will, and Inzilanî wished she dared glance at her owner to see what it was that he wanted her to do now.

The moment the guest's hand was withdrawn from her, the mistress' arm wrapped her shoulder and pulled her close. Inzilanî held very still so as not to offend or anger the lady, and let her gaze return to the floor where it belonged. The _nimîr_ continued to talk among themselves, and Inzilanî again turned her mind away from the voices, even when Malheril's hand lifted from her shoulder to stroke her hair.

She had a hunch that the _nimîr_ were discussing _her_, and hopefully not in a way that would mean that she would have to leave her wonderful new owners. But it made sense that Destiny would have shown her this short moment of beauty and humiliation just before taking her back into the dark world where she truly belonged.

_ammê - (A) mother  
attô - (A) father  
cam lîn - (S) your hand (cam=hand, lîn=your)  
na - (S) yes  
nethben - (S) little one (courtesy of Darth Fingon)  
nimir - (A) elf  
nimîr - (A) elves  
sidh - (S) peace  
tolo si - (S) come here (imperative)  
urkan - (A) - orc (nom. case)  
uruk - (A) - orc (obj. case)_


	8. Slipping

Chapter 8 - Slipping

Inzilanî waited until the sound of the mistress' slippers against the rug was far enough away that she felt safe in slipping out of the bed. She was tired after struggling with a day where everything had gone wrong, but determined that her nightmares not bother her owners again if she could help it. Her bare feet scuffed against the rug, marveling that something so simple could make the room warm. It surely would be at least as comfortable as anything she'd slept on before the battle, as the _urkan_ had never let her remain in his bed after using her but kicked her onto the cold ground once he was finished.

She put out her hands and walked very slowly until she found the wall of the room, and then put her back against it and slowly sank to the rug. Now, with her knees in front of her so she could hug them, she felt more at ease. The bed was too comfortable, too warm. It was for _nimîr_. She was a slave, and this was better for her.

The day had continued long and confusing and frustrating, even after the honored guest had finally departed. Borongil had left the quarters not long thereafter, and the mistress brought out some material and a strange hoop thing that had stretched a small portion of it until it was tight. Malheril then settled in a pool of light from another of the odd windows in the apartment that seemed to open more into bushes than any real vista, and began plying her needle to create flowers of breathtaking beauty, seemingly from nowhere.

Inzilanî had stared at the work of art slowly emerging from the blank cloth, and then remembered herself and her position. She retrieved the little cloth from where she'd hidden it in her pocket and sped through the room, cleaning as quickly and efficiently and competently as she had never done for the Umbari captain. And it was while dusting a cabinet in the far corner that she had finally found it.

Both Borongil's sword and the dagger were safely stowed in their sheaths and leaning against the wall in the corner where they were out of the way and yet easily retrieved. There was also a longbow, stored unstrung, with a quiver of arrows tipped with white feathers. Inzilanî glanced about to make certain the mistress was still busily creating things of beauty, and then let her fingers run over the embossed leather. _Nimîr_ loved their trees and leaves, it seemed, for vines and leaves seemed to decorate everything here: scabbards, sheathes, quivers, bookshelves, even the fancy sewing that decorated clothing.

The find of the dagger, however, had been just what Inzilanî had hoped to make. With it, she could finally take care of that which should have been done before the battle that lost her the _uruk_ as owner.

For now, however, she leaned her head against the rough-hewn stone in the darkness and wished that it could be different. Borongil and Malheril were trying so hard to be kind to her, sitting that evening after the meal and giving her more of their words and then helping her to remember the ones that she had learned from him on the long journey beforehand. And Malheril had tucked her into bed again, and given her a gentle smile to go with it.

She sniffed and wiped at her nose with the back of her hand. She liked it here and didn't want to leave them.

The thought of doing anything that made either of them angry or sad was like a hard kick in her stomach, but there was little for it. They deserved so much better than her, perhaps a slave that would be quicker to learn and had been treated well all along, one that had earned good owners. That definitely _wasn't_ her. She was an _uruk_, even though her skin was the color of deerskin rather than grey, and her eyes black rather than red. A monster as ugly and evil as any _uruk_ lived inside her, and that monster didn't deserve anything but loathing and a quick end.

The questions that Inzilanî _couldn't_ answer yet was when she would have the chance to do what was necessary, nor where it would be best for her to go to do it. She was _not_ going to mess their nice rugs with her blood! She needed somewhere that would wash clean afterwards, somewhere where all trace of her could be rinsed away like the blood from her fingers in the stream had been. Then Borongil and Malheril could be happy, and not have to worry about her anymore.

In the meantime, however, she needed to stay awake. None of her fears were going to trouble her owners this night! Inzilanî settled back, crossing her legs in front of her in the way she used to when a small child, and began a low chant to the spirits that had so often helped her in bad places. This was not a bad place, but she needed help all the same. She would add a plea to the ancestors to watch over her owners in the night, to give their sleep – or whatever they had – depth and restfulness, and to shield their ears should she fail in her efforts to stay awake and dream again.

oOoOo

Inzilanî was exhausted, but she had managed to stay awake all night! She could hear the murmur of voices from elsewhere in the apartment, and she stretched out muscles that had grown stiff in the cold. She pushed herself to her feet with a grunt so she could climb back into the too-comfortable bed before either Borongil or Malheril could catch her sitting on the floor. She pulled the covers up over her shoulder and closed her eyes, fully intending to pretend sleep. But her exhaustion caught up to her almost immediately, and before she knew it, the dreams surged…

_"Again."_

_She rocked forward to put her toes in the right position and then back again to rise to her feet. Her calves and thighs ached from this same movement having been done so many times in the past hours…_

_The whip caught her across the buttocks, with no cloth to soften the blow. "Clumsy!"  
her Umbari captain yelled at her. "You look like a cow getting up. Now down."_

_She used her hands to mime tucking in a skirt so that it wouldn't billow and sank to her knees and sat back on her heels. Again the whip fell, this time across the shoulders. "You nearly fell. Can't you learn anything? Up again."_

_Her calves and thighs screamed as she rocked forward, then back and tried to flow upwards the way he wanted. It was so hard… And the whip landing on her buttocks told her that she had once more failed. Only this time it didn't stop, but fell again and again and…_

_And then she was under the uruk again, and he was pounding into her again and again and…_

_And then she was sitting in a blood-spattered circle of trees, her arm moving up and down as if by itself, and the dagger made a loud, squishing noise again and again. She looked down, and red eyes burned at her. "Uruk! Monster! Just look at what you've done."_

_She didn't want to look. She didn't' want to see the way the parts and pieces that she herself had cut away from the still-twitching body lay scattered. She didn't want to remember how it felt to stomp down on flesh still trembling._

A hand landed on her shoulder, and she started awake with a shriek and scuttled as far away from its owner as she could, blinking in the light that was now coming through the odd window on the other side of the room. She blinked again and then rubbed at her eyes tiredly, then quickly moved off the bed and to her knees in front of Borongil and gave him two hands to the heart, barely catching herself before she prostrated herself and angered him. "_Aur vae_," she recited carefully as she sat up straight again, struggling to remember the greeting he had given her on the journey in order to distract him from the fact that he had again found her in the middle of a nightmare.

"_Aur vae, nethben._" He was surprised, she could tell, but his eyes saw too much. He tipped his head at her questioningly and frowned. He pointed to her and then mimed her sleep pose, only to tip his head again.

Had she slept well?

"_Na,_" she lied easily.

He shook his head. "_Uin._" He pointed to her again, and then ran his hand down his face, pulling his eyes to droop and his mouth to sag.

Did she really look that tired? Inzilanî gazed into those strange grey eyes that even inside this cavern seemed to glow with starlight, and then looked down, ashamed. She didn't want to lie to him, not when he'd been so good to her. She looked back up at him, tears filling her eyes, and she rubbed on her chest over her heart with her fingertips. Would he understand that she was apologizing?

When he nodded and gave her a half-smile, Inzilanî thought that her heart would burst. She didn't deserve the kindnesses, and yet, she craved them. At that moment, she would have walked through fire for Borongil gladly. But it seemed that all he wanted her to do was to climb back into bed. She gazed up at him fearfully and shook her head. Quickly she pretended to clean something in her empty hand, only to have his large hand capture both of hers. He pointed to her and then mimed her sleep pose again, then pointed to her pillow.

Reluctantly, she climbed back onto the bed, and this time it was Borongil who tucked the covers around her carefully and then sat down on the bed next to her. He smoothed her hair back and began to sing the song he had gifted her with on the journey, the one that made her think of trees and tall grass and fresh, clean, fast-moving water. His fingertips brushed her eyelids, inviting them to close.

With gentle fingers brushing across her brow rhythmically and a song chasing away all of the shadows that dwelt in her memory, Inzilanî couldn't help but relax and begin to doze. As she slipped away, she found herself wishing with all her heart that she were a _nimir_, and that Borongil were her _attô._ It would be so easy to learn to love him, and let him care for her, and the same thing applied to Malheril.

Too easy, her conscience scolded her sternly. Such thoughts were a trap that she didn't dare let herself fall victim to, if she truly cared about these _nimîr_. She gave herself over to the possibility of restful sleep, all the while deepening her resolve to remove herself as a bother as soon as possible. Borongil shouldn't need to worry about her all the time. Neither of them should.

oOoOo

The days passed slowly, filled with confusion and frustration. Inzilanî did her best to assume all of the housekeeping tasks, but Malheril would patiently stop her when two other _nimîr_ women would come and take care of the jobs with a song and laughter. Inzilanî could only stand and stare at women who were more than happy to do the work, who in no way looked mistreated or even reluctant. She would turn and look back at Malheril, who would visit with these women and work on some delicate needlework while they cleaned, and wonder just _how_ the _nimîr_ were accustomed to treating their slaves.

The language lessons continued in the evenings, when Borongil would return from whatever duties had called him away during the day, his hair still damp from the vat. Inzilanî would watch her owner with concern sometimes, for he would sometimes sag in near exhaustion when he thought that Malheril wasn't watching. He caught her looking at him once, and with a gesture told her to remain quiet about it. Inzilanî frowned, but nodded. He was trying not to worry the mistress, and she could appreciate that. But she wished there were some way that she could lighten his load for him. That _was_ her duty, after all.

Her nights were spent in the bed and not on the floor, however, for either Borongil or Malheril would seat themselves on the edge of it after tucking her in and sing her to sleep. Sometimes they would even stay late into the night with her and rouse her when her memories would once more attempt to drag her into a nightmare. The songs they sang were simple ones, with melodies that would stay with her into the daylight. There were times when the memories tried to surface during the day that Inzilanî would even try to hum the songs to herself, hoping that they would hold even just half the potency if _she_ were the one singing. Sometimes it even worked.

Twice more she was taken to the special room where the vat stood and made to sit in the water, and Malheril showed her how to use the white stuff in her own hair and choose an oil for later. She also wouldn't allow Inzilanî to help the women who brought the hot water, or those who cleaned the vats after, much to Inzilanî's frustration.

But the trips to the vat finally presented Inzilanî with the location for when the time came to use the dagger. The vats were easily cleaned, easily rinsed free of anything that might soil them – even blood. Not only that, but other slaves could do the work, meaning that she could just vanish from the apartment one day, hopefully after she had gained enough trust to be allowed to move about the cavern like other slaves. Malheril wouldn't have to even think of her again. After all, was it not tradition that slaves took care of the remains of other slaves who had chosen death over continued service and abuse – if and when the opportunities arose? Such service to one's fellow meant that such would be accorded back someday. Inzilanî could only hope that the same traditions held among the _nimîr_ slaves as well.

Most recently, Malheril had taken her out into the rest of the underground keep, their walk ending in a visit to the same _nimir_ that had come to visit and seen her wounds and scars. Once more, Inzilanî was made to let him take the bandages from her wrists and ankles, only this time he brought out a jar of very pleasant smelling ointment that, when spread over her injuries, seemed to take away any hint of soreness. He bandaged her again with an ease that made her wonder if he were a healer. A little intimidated and yet very grateful, Inzilanî folded her hands over her heart and bowed to him. His answering smile was warm, and fingers that smelled of the wonderful ointment cupped her face for a moment, even as Malheril's fingers were working at the laces of her gown.

This time, however, her mistress pushed the gown completely off of her shoulders to drape at her waist, and Inzilanî stood frozen in shock as the _nimir_ took his squat jar of ointment behind her and began ministering to the injuries on her back which had yet to heal. The touch of those careful fingers in spreading relief without causing more hurt made her close her eyes briefly. The surprise didn't end, however; for he then moved in front of her and pointed out to the lady the places where the _urkan_ had bitten her on her breasts, some of which were still red and angry. More of the ointment was applied, and amazingly, the touch was impersonal, with no hint of desire or seeking pleasure. A broad bandage was then wrapped about Inzilanî's chest and back by hands that didn't stray from their task even the least bit, and he even helped her slip her arms back into her sleeves before being laced up again.

Again the healer cupped her cheek, and spoke gently to her before rising and addressing himself to the mistress. A dollop of the ointment he'd used was transferred to a smaller pot and handed over, with plenty of pointing to indicate the lady was being instructed in its proper use. Inzilanî had to force herself to remember to keep her gaze on the floor and her mind occupied on something other than their voices.

The vats; she'd think about the vats, and just how she was going to find them without help when the time came. How soon would Borongil know that his dagger was missing after she took it? Did he check his weapons daily? Would the other slaves, who no doubt knew where the weapons were stowed, betray her if they came after she'd tried to vanish? There were so many questions, so many things about these _nimîr_ that she just couldn't know.

Malheril's hand landed on her shoulder, and Inzilanî gave her mistress her hand automatically, knowing from experience now that to be the next request. It was time to be led back to their quarters, where everything was too good to be true, and completely wrong.

_Vocabulary (A)dúnaic (S)indarin_

_attô - (A) father_

_aur vae - (S) good morning_

_na - (S) yes_

_nimir - (A) elf_

_nimîr - (A) elves_

_uin - (S) no (that's not so)_

_urkan - (A) orc (nom. case)_

_uruk - (A) orc (obj. case)_


	9. The Last Straw

Chapter 9 - The Last Straw

Inzilanî stuck the needle into the fabric and once more thrust the sharp point into her finger. She muttered a word that the _urkan_ used to say when he was particularly upset, and then blushed. Malheril smiled indulgently and put her own beautiful embroidery down to patiently adjust Inzilanî's hands one more time. Inzilanî couldn't imagine herself doing the fine work that her mistress seemed to create so effortlessly, but she kept at it because _this_ seemed to be one of the few tasks her mistress would genuinely allow her to do now.

But her flowers were lop-sided and looked nothing like the example that the lady had stitched into her square of material. No matter how hard she tried, Inzilanî just couldn't get the petals all the same length, or keep them the same width. And her knots… Malheril had turned over her work once to tie off one thread before starting with a new one, and the underside of her work looked almost as neat and beautiful as the topside. Inzilanî had turned _her_ work over and looked with disgust at the extra threads that had looped where she didn't want them.

This was just another example of what a poor slave she was: she couldn't even learn to use a needle and thread properly! But Malheril didn't punish her for failing to produce something even half-ways of the same quality; no, the mistress would nod encouragingly and then demonstrate a particular stitch once more, working very slowly so Inzilanî could watch again. Her mistress' patience was something Inzilanî had never experienced before, and it confused her. She kept waiting for a blow that never came, and it made her nervous.

She gave a sideways glance through the door of her bedchamber to the little window that looked out over a meadow far below, and noted that the daylight was waning. Immediately she looked over to the apartment door; Borongil would be coming back soon, and this gentle torture would be over for another day. Then she would be allowed to help set out the plates on the table, and move the bowls of fruit and the loaf of bread from the sideboard, where the other slaves had left them. She would then fill the three cups with fresh water from the pitcher – another thing the other slaves would bring – and set them out.

Inzilanî saw her mistress' head rise just before she heard the latch on the apartment door rise, and she tucked her needle into her work for the next day and was on her feet immediately. "_Aduial vae_," she greeted her owner the moment his face appeared in the doorway.

"Good evening to you_, _Inzilanî," Borongil replied in slow _nimîr_ wordswith a smile for both her and for the mistress. Inzilanî made quick tracks to the sideboard to begin her evening duties while her owners greeted each other. But his voice called her back with an excited "Wait_!_"

She turned to see Malheril literally dancing on her toes, and Inzilanî slowly came back to the parlor. She folded her hands in front of her, but refrained from going to her knees to wait patiently for what was coming next. They didn't like her to kneel to them at all for some reason.

Borongil was obviously sorting through the words that he knew she understood. "We eat tonight at another place, with all."

Inzilanî was astonished, but she did her best to show little of her surprise. "_Na_."

"Come! A new dress tonite!" Malheril put out her hand in obvious excitement.

It was hard to suppress her surprise at the announcement; Inzilanî was certain that the gown she was wearing was the only one she owned. Still, the mistress was waiting, and so she put her hand out obediently to be pulled into her little chamber. Malheril wagged her finger in the old sign for her to stay, and then also tugged on her gown and ordered, "Off!" before darting back out of the open door.

Inzilanî shook her head, but set about doing as she'd been told. She carefully folded her gown the way she'd been shown, and placed it in the same place she left it every evening when she put on the sleeping gown. Not exactly certain what to do next, she sat down on the edge of her bed and folded her hands. The mistress would come back for her and tell her what to do. She hoped she would, anyway.

When the lady came back, however, Inzilanî was so shocked that she couldn't help staring. She had never seen anyone wear such a wonderful gown in all her life. Crafted of material that moved with Malheril's slightest movement or the least whisper of air, and in a delicate green that was almost white, the gown accentuated the dark hair and slender beauty of the _nimir_ woman. And over her arm was material that looked very similar, only this time in palest blue, with thin slippers to match.

Inzilanî put up her hands when directed and otherwise didn't dare touch the beautiful material that was now covering her from shoulders to feet for fear that her work-roughened hands would somehow catch the material and mar it. Obediently she stepped into the slippers to find them a perfect fit. Malheril gave a final tug on the laces and then moved to stand in front of her. "Very pretty," was her comment, brushing Inzilanî's hair back over her shoulder and then catching at her hand. "Come with me."

Totally bemused, Inzilanî was dragged from her chamber and into the one that her owners shared. Near a tall, carved chest, Borongil was shrugging into a different kind of garment, and when he turned to smile at both her and his mate, Inzilanî's mouth dropped open in undisguised shock. This was not the look of a simple _nimir_ warrior, surely! The deep green robe, with its lighter ties artistically arranged in front of the wide sash, looked rich. Borongil's silver hair had its usual small braids at the sides, but now they were fixed with small golden beads, and there was a very narrow but woven strip of gold that circled his head. Was her owner a king, and if so, who was _Pharazôn_?

But Inzilanî wasn't given much opportunity to stare at her keeper; Malheril had her sitting down before a low chest that had, hanging on the wall behind it, a mirror. Once more Inzilanî had to stop and stare, this time at the woman-child in the reflection. Was that _her_? Yes, the curve of the brows, the cant of the black eyes, the color of skin – so much darker than the pale and glowing _nimîr_ – were hers, but the girl in the reflection was actually pretty! Inzilanî almost flinched at the idea that a monster could look so fair.

The lady wielded the comb with skill, and then in but a few moments more had created small braids back from Inzilanî's temple that, when caught together in back, were a simple, elegant look. But Inzilanî sighed silently to herself when her mistress leaned over and fished a small, silver bead from a box on the low chest and used it to finish the braid.

Borongil's smile was wide when his mate finally turned a finished Inzilanî to face him. "Very nice," was his comment. He spread his hands wide and herded both Malheril and Inzilanî into the hallway outside their apartment, then settled his lady's hand in the bend of his elbow. "Come," he told Inzilanî and held out his free hand to her.

Now Inzilanî was _certain_ that he and his lady considered her a pet rather than a slave. Slaves weren't given new, beautiful clothing to wear, or silver beads for their hair. Her place tonight was very clear to her now too: she was an adornment, and a new one to be shown off at that. This was something her Umbari captain had prepared her to do very well, and she would do her utmost to show her owners at their very best.

Still, her heart beat hard in her chest as her owners led her into a large number of _nimîr_, all going in the same direction; even as many days as she had spent in this cavern, she had had no idea how many dwelled there below the mountain with her. She edged closer to Borongil, feeling very insecure all of a sudden.

Surrounded by _nimîr_, the three of them walked into a huge hall, and Inzilanî could hardly believe her eyes. Tables lined the walls, and were set in rows; and at the very end of the room was a raised platform with yet another table, dominated in the middle by an ornate, carved chair. And seated in that chair, in robes of the same design as Borongil's, but of a golden material that gleamed almost as brightly as his hair, was _Pharazôn_. Inzilanî stared at the circle of green leaves and wildflowers that adorned _Pharazôn's_ head, far more grand and beautiful than anything a child could weave for a parent. That was a crown; it could be nothing else. She had been right: _Pharazôn_ was indeed the King here.

Borongil led the two of them past all the other tables and then up onto the platform. Amazingly, _Pharazôn_ had risen from his seat at their approach. "My son!" he said in that deep voice of his that Inzilanî had never forgotten, and then had embraced Borongil fondly. Inzilanî stared; her owner wasn't a king, but a prince. And she hadn't known at all. But now that she saw them side by side, she could see the resemblance.

_Pharazôn's_ gaze next rested on Malheril, and she too was gifted with a warm hug. Inzilanî wasn't entirely certain, but she thought the words her mistress had said meant, "Welcome home," or "You look well;" and the King answered her in soft tones that were hard to hear, and Malheril laughed merrily.

Finally the King's gaze landed on Inzilanî, who trembled so much that it was hard to stay standing. Every muscle in her body wanted her to plant herself with her face to the rug on the platform, but Inzilanî knew that such was not appreciated among the _nimîr_. They didn't even like to see her on her knees. And her purpose this night was to lend prestige to Borongil, so it wouldn't be wise to go against the wishes of her owners. She didn't dare approach the King any closer, but she put her hands to her heart and bent as low as she could with as much grace as she could muster, and then straightened and forced herself to look at the rug.

"Better," was the King's greeting to her, and his hand rested for a small moment on her head. Inzilanî felt herself relax automatically; at last _someone_ had made the proper gesture of dominance! Then the hand cupped her cheek and turned her face up to his. Those green eyes, the ones that had seen too much, the ones the color of spring leaves, were smiling at her. Inzilanî made herself return the smile; after all, a well-trained pet would smile at a Great One, even if the smile hid the monster inside.

With a hand landing on her shoulder, Borongil directed her to the third seat to the right of the King. Once she was seated, and the slaves had finished serving the food to the raised table, Inzilanî looked out across the crowd of _nimîr_, seeking out the other captives that had been taken with her. Were they as confused at every turn as she was? Were they, too, kept as pets? But as her gaze swept the room, she could see none of the boys who had been taken from the _urik_ camp when she had been. She looked again, her eyes resting on warriors she was certain had been with the company that had participated in the battle, but not a single dust-head did she see anywhere in the hall.

Slowly she turned to stare at _Pharazôn_ with consternation. Where were they?

The answer was like being kicked in the head: they were dead, of course. The _nimîr_ had come to recognize that all of them had become the very monsters that had abused them, and they had taken pity and sent the boys on to their ancestors before they could do anything worse. It was only right. Only a monster would have rejoiced in the blood and the pain of another the way they had. But…

Why was _she_ still alive, then?

Was it a _nimîr_ form of torture to force her to face those the _urkim_ had so harmed because they _knew_ that the ugliness that had happened in the trees had been _her_ idea? That _she_ had started the violence? And now they dressed her well and paraded her before others to demonstrate that they could catch and tame the monster? Her stomach turned, and suddenly even the thought of the fine food that sat on her plate made her ill. This was cruelty of a sort that cut with kindness, and it hurt as much as any blow to the head or crack of the whip.

Malheril turned to her with a gentle smile on her face and smoothed her hair back over her shoulder. "Eat, Inzilanî," she urged and then turned when Borongil spoke to her. Inzilanî had to force herself not to recoil with horror and fury as _Pharazôn_ laughed heartily at something his son said. How _dare_ they leave her alive! How _dare_ they force her to endure when the others had been freed from the stains on their lives! Every kindness she had been shown here had been meant only to cut her all the deeper! It was a lie – all of it!

But, well-trained pet that she was, she pasted a smile on her face and slowly choked down her meal. She would bide her time, letting them think that they were clever, until she learned the way to the vat. And then what little honor she guarded in her soul would see that she would be free, and the stain of being a monster would be washed away at last.

If nothing else, her time with the _uruk_ had taught her patience and endurance, and she had survived _that_. She would need those traits, now more than ever.

For the first time in her life, she was grateful to the _uruk_.

_Vocabulary_

aduial vae - (S) good evening (aduial=evening, vae=good (mae, lenited))  
mae - (S) yes, good, well  
nimir - (A) elf  
nimîr - (A) elves  
Pharazôn - (A) Golden One  
urik - (A) orcs (obj. case)  
urkim - (A) orcs (nom. case)  
uruk - (A) orc (obj. case)


	10. Hitting Bottom

Chapter 10 - Hitting bottom

The dagger was cold against her forearm, tucked into the bandage wrappings so she wouldn't drop it, and the corridor outside the apartment had no rug to keep her feet warm. Inzilanî shook her head at herself; so quickly had she become accustomed to luxury! It was just as well that she was on her way to end it all before she weakened any further and began to believe in the lies she was being fed. She was _not_ cared for, _not_ something to be proud of. She was a monster in a cage, and monsters didn't deserve to live.

The trip to the vat that morning, after a long night of restlessness and bitter thoughts, had finally taught her the path to take. The day had passed even more slowly than before, and keeping her face calm and empty of emotion had taken almost all the energy she owned. Finally, she had forced herself to stay awake despite the tempting songs that lured her into a deep sleep. Borongil had actually leaned down and brushed a kiss across her brow once he thought she slumbered; did he really have to continue to lie when she wasn't paying attention to him? Or had _he_ begun to believe the lies too? Perhaps it was just as well that she die now, so that he didn't have to fool himself anymore.

Inzilanî slipped from pool of shadow to pool of shadow, ducking into alcoves and behind furniture at the hint of approach by another. It was amazing to her that so many of the _nimîr_ were still up and abroad so late at night. It suddenly occurred to her that the vat room might _not_ be empty – that another _nimir_ would be soaking and cleaning themselves – what would she do then?

No. That wasn't going to happen. The spirits knew that her intent was a good one, and they would clear her way. Inzilanî slipped closer and closer, until finally she could dart through the door of the room with all the vats.

It was dark, meaning no one was using the room, and she let loose a sigh of relief; she had made it, and nobody had seen her. She stood with her back pressed against the wall next to the door, her heart pounding hard in her chest, trying to make her mind work. She had thought this through so many times; now that she was here, what came next?

Oh.

She felt her way across the room, through the soft, white curtain that surrounded the nearest vat, and tripped over the wooden stool that sat next to it. Inzilanî grimaced at the pain from her stubbed toe, but began going through the motions she'd only been able to wish for. She picked up and moved the little stool until it was sitting immediately next to the vat, and then put the dagger on the stool, where it would be in easy reach. Then she felt for the top edge of the vat, hiked her skirt and lifted one foot into it. But on lifting her other foot, she knocked the stool, and the dagger clattered to the hard stone floor.

Inzilanî froze, terrified that she had been heard, but released her breath when nothing else moved and no voice demanded to know what was going on. She climbed out of the vat and felt around the floor near the stool until her fingers at last found the cold metal, and then traced to the hilt before picking it up. She didn't need to cut herself now and drip blood where it would make more work to clean. Once more she placed the dagger on the stool, and this time followed the lip of the vat around to the other side, so that climbing in wouldn't knock the dagger to the floor again.

Empty, without the warm water, the vat was cold, but Inzilanî forced herself to ignore that. It wouldn't matter much anyway after a while, and would only be a temporary discomfort now. She carefully put her arm over the edge of the vat and felt for and then found the dagger. She pulled it into the vat and set it on her stomach, suddenly afraid.

Would the ancestors welcome her after all? Surely the spirits had brought word to them of the evil deeds she had done, and how her spirit had twisted until she had become an _uruk_. Would she be welcomed, or would she be banished to the dark places between worlds, where the demons lived? Or would she be forced to remain in that circle of trees, in the company of the _urik_ she had helped butcher, until world's end?

Inzilanî threw her head back, allowing the tears to flow freely. It was time to release them, because they were the only way the stain on her soul would ever be washed away. Since the day her father had handed her over to the slave-merchant, this had been her end. Destiny had written a hard role for her to play, but it was over now.

One last time she allowed herself to think about Borongil and Malheril. It would have been so easy to give in, to let the lies become her truth, and think that they actually cared for her. This _nimîr_ world was too confusing, too beautiful, for the likes of her. No monster should walk these halls.

With that, she lifted the dagger. Amazingly, it fit her hand well, despite being made for a much bigger, much stronger grip. And it was very sharp. The point sank into her wrist almost before she could feel it; and drawing it across her skin was a smooth process. Only the sensation of wet and a slight stinging told her that she'd done things properly. Now, all she had to do was wait… or… Did she need to cut the other one too, to make sure it happened quickly?

Inzilanî fumbled with the dagger – her fingers were now slick with her blood, and the weapon wasn't light – and she had just finally gotten a firm grip on it when light flared behind her.

"_BAW!_"

She whipped her head around to see _Pharazôn_ staring at her, his mouth open in shock and horror. In her own surprise, her grip on the dagger slipped, and the blade fell with the sharp point down and sliced easily through her thin sleeping gown and into her stomach.

"Inzilanî, BAW!" the King bellowed and started toward her.

"Please." She put her bloody hands together at her brow. "I die. Better. You go."

"No. Not better," he insisted, moving closer carefully.

Inzilanî shrugged and reached for the dagger again. "I _urkan_. I die. All others dead. I dead too."

"Wait!" _Pharazôn_ came closer, and Inzilanî's grip on the dagger tightened. "What others?"

Why wasn't he understanding her? Didn't she have the right words? "Others same me. Make _urkim_ dead in trees. I look, not see. They _urkim_ too now. I know you make all _urkim_ dead…" She sighed heavily and pressed the point of the dagger into the unharmed wrist. It didn't hurt much that time either.

"Others like you – the boys?"

"Yes. They dead. They free. I need free. I die, go to…" She stammered to a halt, not knowing the _nimîr_ word for ancestors. "I free."

The large hand of the King reached in and pried the dagger from her hand. "Inzilanî, the boys are not dead."

"They not here. They dead."

"No. They are in Esgaroth, with Men. Men know the boys hurt the _yrch_, and they will take them back home in time." That made no sense, and her brows wrinkled in confusion. He sighed and tried again. "I give you my word. The boys are not dead. The boys are free."

"I _urkan_." The truth hurt. Even if _Pharazôn_ had let the others live, it was _she_ that had started the violence, _she_ who had been the worst. The others had merely followed her lead.

He crouched next to the vat. "No, Inzilanî. You are not _urkan_. You are hurt, yes, hurt here…" A long finger touched where her wrists were bleeding onto her thighs. "…and hurt here…" He touched her head. "…and hurt here." His finger touched her chest over her heart and tapped it. "The _urkan_ make you hurt here. You need…" and he said a word she didn't understand. Even though he otherwise had used words she knew more or less, she didn't understand him at all. And with that, _Pharazôn_ rose, slipped his hands beneath her and then lifted her out of the vat to stand briefly. From somewhere he had found a soft cloth like the ones she'd used to dry herself after a soak in the water, and wrapped it around her. The moment he had her wrapped, he had her back up in his arms and was moving, taking her somewhere else.

"I _urkan_," she protested. "I start…" And as the words failed her, she tried to make gestures to fill the holes, but the blanket wouldn't' let her. "I say them… I cut… I…" The tears were streaming down her face. "All black. Smell. Bad. I not stop. No good. I no good."

"Inzilanî." When she didn't answer him, he shook her slightly. "Inzilanî! I cut down the _uruk_. I made the _uruk_ dead. I am _urkan_ then too?"

Her eyes slammed shut and she shook her head hard. "You _nimir_. Not _urkan_."

"I make all black. Black blood. It smelled bad. I did not stop until they were all dead. I am no good?" he insisted with another tiny shake. "I am an _urkan_?"

Didn't he understand? "You _nimir_. You _Ar-Pharazôn_. King. Not _urkan_. I no good. Better dead."

"No, little one. No. You are good, but you are hurt, badly hurt. You will stay, you stay with Borongil, we will make you better."

"No." She shook her head firmly. "Borongil not need I. I trouble. Borongil not need trouble. Better dead."

_Pharazôn_ shook his head just as firmly. "Borongil will help you. You are no trouble. We will make you better, make your hurts go away."

She looked up into his face, willing him to understand her. "No. Borongil have Malheril. I make not sleep. I trouble. I _ugru-manô_, I better dead before war. _Urkan_ not dead me right…" How could she explain that she was supposed to be dead already – that this was only correcting a massive mistake? It was getting harder to think clearly, harder to use words that were too new.

But he wasn't looking at her anymore. She could feel that he was walking very fast, but his voice stayed soft and gentle. "You are no trouble, little one. You are hurt. Badly hurt. We did not know. We will make you better now. You have my word."

She let her head fall against the King's shoulder, too tired and defeated to fight anymore. So after all her planning, all her efforts, she'd failed at ending her life, just as she'd failed at so many other things. And now she would be made to endure again, to live a life that was upside-down, in a world where she didn't belong. The _nimîr_ wouldn't let her kneel or put her face on the floor; they wouldn't let her die either.

A King shouldn't carry a slave through the halls, and she was getting blood on _Pharazôn's_ fine clothing. Trouble – that was what she was; trouble, and a failure.

oOoOo

The healer gave Inzilanî a small sip of something very bitter while she was still in _Pharazôn's_ arms, and after just a few minutes everything began to move far, far away, although it didn't... She tried to frown, but couldn't feel if her face was working. The _nimîr_ voices around her flowed and trickled like music, and she could almost catch a word from time to time, but she had entered a place where everything floated and nothing was real. Had she died? Had she succeeded after all, despite _Pharazôn's_ interference? Where had he gone? Where were her ancestors?

Things were happening to her, things she didn't understand – she felt touches at her hands, her wrists, her stomach, touches that felt funny, like Malheril's sewing needle – but none of it was important. The floating feeling was wonderful. Nothing hurt, and even the ugly memories were but vague hints of darkness that were powerless. This was a good place; she wondered if she would be allowed to stay here until world's end.

More voices swirled around her, worried voices, upset voices. Was that Borongil? Had she displeased him again? Of course, she had. She wanted to go to her knees and let him know she was sorry, sorry that his rest had been disturbed again, sorry that she had made a mess of the King's tunic with her blood, sorry that she had failed; but her arms and legs wouldn't obey her.

Surely she had ruined it all now. They would think that she didn't want to be with them, and they would send her away to new owners. After all, she had finally convinced _Pharazôn_ that she was _urkan_, hadn't she? He'd stopped arguing with her. But then, he'd taken her from the vat… was she bleeding on someone's bed now? And so it continued; she could do nothing right, not even die properly.

Was that Malheril? She moaned and tried to turn, tried to tell them how sorry she was…

"Sleep, Inzilanî." _Pharazôn's_ voice came at her from somewhere, along with a brush against her eyelids that forced them to close. "Sleep. You will be better soon. I give you my word."

oOoOo

Her wrists and stomach hurt.

Inzilanî whimpered. She wasn't floating anymore; she could feel the press of warm blankets on her, the touch of breeze on her skin. She moved her hands and became aware of the thick bandages at her wrists. She was alive, and she hurt. Was she back with the _urik_?

"Shhhh…" came a quiet voice, one that was almost familiar. "You are better. But you will drink this now." A small cup was held to her lips, and she swallowed the bitter potion again with a grimace. "Sleep. You will be better soon."

The darkness that overtook her along with the feeling of floating again was not frightening at all. With a sigh, Inzilanî surrendered to the feeling and floated away again; away from everything, because everything hurt.

oOoOo

What woke her was a song, sung softly as if under the breath, in a voice she didn't know. Inzilanî worked hard to make her eyes obey her and open, only to blink in the brightness. Where was she?

The song ceased. "Good morning."

She blinked hard and lifted a hand that was less obedient than it should have been to rub at her eyes. Slowly the world came back into focus, and she discovered that the smiling face and starlit eyes in front of her belonged to the healer that had cared for her hurts before. She stared at him dully, not wanting to try to form words. She was alive. She had failed.

The bandages at her wrist were thicker than they had been before, and the healer gently pulled her fingers away when she began picking at the leather strap. "No. You are better, but not…" He used a word she didn't know.

Inzilanî sighed and looked around her with growing confusion. Everything here was light; this wasn't the cavern. Had Borongil and _Pharazôn_ sent her away, then? It would serve her right. She had done nothing right for them, not even removed herself properly.

"This is a _talan_," the healer told her, looking around for himself. "In a tree."

Oh. That was why everything around her seemed made of wood.

"Listen!" The healer lifted a finger as birdsong filled the room.

Inzilanî closed her eyes and leaned back into her pillow. She didn't want to hear birdsong. She wanted to see her ancestors. She wanted to be dead. She wanted to see…

She heard the healer move away from her bed and speak softly to someone. Had there been another _nimir_ in the room? She hadn't seen anyone. She rolled onto her side so that all she could see was the wall, a wall that was not so much wall as curtain and a railing and nothing beyond. It hurt to roll, but it hurt more to live.

She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't! But from a small place deep inside, she could hear herself keening because she would never see Malheril or Borongil again. Even _Pharazôn_, for all his interfering, had ever tried to comfort her – she'd never see him again either. He had given her to Borongil in the first place. She would have crawled all the way back to the cavern with her face in the dust if it meant she could be returned to her owners. She would try to learn to endure. She would live, even if life was all wrong.

There was a tap at her shoulder. "Inzilanî. Drink this now."

"No sleep," she complained, throwing a hand up, as if it would stop him. "Too many sleep."

"No more sleep," he agreed. "This will make the hurt go."

Slowly she turned her head. "No sleep?"

He nodded. "I give my word. No more sleep."

Inzilanî sighed and rolled onto her back. The healer's hand behind her head lifted her so that she could down the potion, which didn't seem quite so bitter this time. "Come." He threw back the covers and pulled a warm robe from the base of the bed. "You sit up now. Eat."

"No eat." She lay back and turned her face to the curtained wall again.

"Yes, eat." Gentle hands rolled her back and, with a strong hand at her elbow, helped her sit up. "You need food."

He was stronger than she was, and very determined. Inzilanî swallowed her despair and didn't fight him. It was easier when she didn't fight. It would be easier if she were dead, but he no doubt wouldn't let that happen.

She was trapped alive, with no hope for escape. All she could do was endure.

_Vocabulary - (A)dúnaic (S)indarin_

_Ar-Pharazôn - (A) Golden King - a title_

_baw - (S) no, don't  
nimir - (A) elf  
nimîr - (A) elves  
Pharazôn - (A) Golden One  
ugru-manô - (A) shadow-spirit (walking dead)  
urkan - (A) orc (nom. case)  
urkim - (A) orcs (nom. case)  
urik - (A) orcs (obj. case)  
uruk - (A) orc (obj. case)  
yrch - (S) orcs_


	11. Discussions

Chapter 11 - Discussions

It was a fine spring day, and Inzilanî had been awake since dawn, peeking through the curtains that hung protectively between her and the rest of the world. She was waiting for the healer to bring the basket of food to the _talan _that would allow her to break her fast and begin the day properly, as he had for the past two weeks. Sure enough, a stirring came from the rope ladder that could be only one person. He was, after all, one of only two people she'd seen since she'd awakened here, in this aerie in the trees.

"Bronamar? I go down today?" Inzilanî asked the moment the healer's head peeked through her curtains, as she had done every morning lately. "Please?"

"No. You need more words." Bronamar, who, for some reason, had become her teacher – and a demanding one at that – settled into the chair across the table from her, putting his basket on the table between them. From it, he pulled a small loaf of bread out and held it up. "What is this?"

"Bread."

"And this?"

"Cheese."

"And this?"

"Bronamar! I need make… no… do work." She crossed her arms over her chest in frustration, taking care not to jostle the bandages at her wrists too much. The wounds where she had cut herself still hurt badly enough that she needed his tea during the day to chase the pain away. "I no need words to work."

"Eat, and talk," he offered. "I have something for you today." He gestured toward the table, and the slightly larger basket he had brought this day.

"What you have?" Inzilanî perked a little, sitting down obediently, wishing she dared pulled the basket close and peek in. Her days had become a very tiring trial, with Bronamar not only teaching her the words of the _nimîr_, but how to sing some simple _nimîr _songs and listen to birdsong as well as. He would let her tidy her _talan_ after lessons, and set the table for the meals they shared as well as collect the dishes and wash them in a small bowl that was also provided for her to wash herself, but little else. During the long evening hours when he was gone, with only the _nimir _woman who never had much to say staying with her, she would have nothing to do but sit and think, which always made her sad. If he said he had something for her today, it might make the days to come pass more quickly.

"First eat, then talk, then…" He said a word she didn't understand.

She frowned. "Not know that word."

He chuckled. "Do not worry. You will learn. Now…" He used a dagger he wore at his belt to cut thick slabs of cheese from the half wheel and lay one each on the half-loaves that he'd already torn open. "Tell me your dreams."

"Same dreams," Inzilanî grumbled, taking a bite so her mouth was full. She had learned at last that the _nimîr_ didn't speak with their mouths full of food, and she was trying to learn their ways. It had made it possible for her to not answer him sometimes, especially when he asked about things that hurt. And for the last few days, Bronamar had been asking about her dreams and making her talk about them, although she had managed with a shrug to keep from saying much on the topic so far. He had stopped giving her the bitter juice that made her sleep heavily and without dreams at night, and her dreams were slowly started turning dark again. She swallowed most of the bite. "Not good talk for eat."

"Tell me. This is a good time to talk."

She sighed and put her bread and cheese down on the table. If he wanted to know, then maybe she _should_ tell him. Maybe then he'd stop asking. "I with _uruk_, he…" She didn't have a word for what the _uruk_ had done with her, and she used her hands to vividly and violently illustrate it. Bronamar's brows rose high on his head, but he didn't give her the word she wanted. "What word…" She illustrated the action again and tipped her head.

Bronamar shook his head. "It is not a good word, Inzilanî. It is a bad thing."

She nodded. Yes, it had been a very bad thing. "Every day he…" She did the sign again. "I cry and cry, no help. Big hurt." Even thinking about that up in the _talan_, far from anything dark, made her tremble. "I cry after, and he…" Again, she had no word for what came after he used her, so she closed her fist and thrust it gently into her stomach, careful to miss where that bandage sat. "Or…" She kicked out her foot. "I dream that."

He was quiet long enough that she was just beginning to hope she'd satisfied his curiosity, when: "Nothing more in the dream?"

Oh, she really didn't want to talk about _that_ at all. She sighed and once more hoped that if she gave him what he wanted just this one time, he wouldn't press her anymore. "I… dream bad time. Make big hurt to _uruk_." Yes, the _urkan_ had screamed loudly while she'd used small cuts to slowly rip away that worst part of him. "Many blood… much blood," she corrected herself.

"In the trees?" he prompted gently. She nodded and sniffed. He sat for a moment, thinking. "_Orch_ makes you hurt, so you make the _orch_ hurt. Yes?" Again she nodded. "When you hurt _orch,_ you are happy?"

She nodded. "_Urkan_ happy make hurts. I happy make _uruk_ hurt. I _urkan_." It was the simple truth, and it still hurt to say it.

Bronamar shook his head. "No. You are not an _orch_. Tell me, when you see the _orch_ come, you are happy?"

"No!" Inzilanî stared at him with wide eyes. "I…" She shivered and put up her hands defensively, cowering.

"Yes. You are afraid." Bronamar copied her posture and expression. "Afraid."

"Afraid." Inzilanî repeated the word. It was an important word, one she needed to learn quickly.

"You are afraid, and then you are…" Bronamar's brows lowered, he bared his teeth and roared like a bear or warg at her. "Yes?"

She remembered the red curtain that had fallen, the one that made everything that came next so very unreal. "Yes."

"Anger," he supplied the word. He roared at her again, and repeated, "You are angry."

"Angry," she repeated, filing another very important word away.

"Anger is good," he said next.

Inzilanî sat back, shaking her head vehemently. "No! Angry _not_ good! I…" She raised her fist as if it had the dagger in it and brought it down, and then again, and again. "I angry not think. Cut. Make hurt like _uruk_."

"Yes," he said, catching her hand and pulling it back to the table. "Exactly. Anger makes you not think. Anger makes you make hurt like an _orch._ It is not you that makes the hurt, the anger makes the hurt."

She stared at him, barely believing her ears. "I… make bad hurt. Bad thing."

"You were angry. _Anger_ makes the bad hurt – the bad thing."

"I _urkan_."

"No." Bronamar laid his hand on her forearm above her bandage. "You are not an _orch_."

"I better dead."

"No." He shook his head at her. "No."

Their discussions about the dreams were always going to end that way, evidently, whether she spoke of them or not. She'd failed again. Inzilanî picked up her bread and cheese and took another big bite, putting an end to the talk.

oOoOo

"Tell me about Borongil," Bronamar said calmly. He had brought work with him that day – several large bunches of dried herbs – and was sitting at the table, patiently stripping leaves and crushing them into little pots.

Inzilanî carefully put her needle into the fabric that had been his gift to her a few weeks back, although he claimed that it had come from Malheril, and she looked over at him. She composed her thoughts while rubbing at the light bandages over the healing scars on her wrist that tended to itch more often than not anymore. "Borongil take… took me away from _urik_ camp. He… watch… watched me."

"Is that all?"

She narrowed her eyes. When Bronamar asked very simple questions, it was a time to pay attention. "He give… gave… me a dagger before war… no… fight. He bring… brought… me to…" She didn't have a word for the underground halls. She gestured as best she could.

"Halls," he supplied, tossing a bare twig aside into the stack of discards. "More?"

"He sing to me…"

"Sang," he corrected sharply.

"He sang to me," she repeated with a sigh. "The songs help with the dreams, make them go away."

"You are friends with Borongil." He leaned his elbows on the table and watched her closely.

"No." She shook her head and tried to think of a way to explain… "I… What the word for me when with _uruk_?"

Bronamar blinked. "Slave. You were the slave of the _orch_."

"I was the slave of Borongil, before…" She pointed sadly to her wrists. "He not let me work much, but I was his slave."

"Inzilanî!" The healer's eyes were wide. "No! You are no slave here."

She nodded. "Yes. He not want… he didn't want me for…" She made the crude sign for what the _urkan_ had done to her. "…so I try… tried… to work. Clean. Make table ready for eat… eating." Her face fell. "I not… I was not good slave. Malheril call other slaves come clean, make me stop. My work not good enough."

"You are _not_ Borongil's slave!"

"I know." She gave a small, sad smile. "Borongil give… gave me away after I try… tried to die." She pointed to her lightly bandaged wrist again. "Is good. I… I was much troubles for him. I think…" She blushed and then felt all her strength flee from her. "I think I am _your_ slave now. When you want…" She made the crude sign again, wishing he would just tell her the word for the act. "…you will tell me. I not… I will not fight. Maybe you not… will not hurt me, and I… will not cry and cry. I try… will try… to be good slave."

She picked up her needle and returned to her practice sewing, something she had resisted when with Malheril in the dark Hall, but something she was slowly learning to enjoy now. Her needle shook almost as badly as her insides did, however, at the though that Bronamar might begin to ask for _that_ from her now. Not having had to do _that _had been a great relief during her time with the _nimîr_ so far; but as her owner now, Bronamar had the right to command her to submit to him without hesitation or question. Then again, she had felt his touch often enough back when he had changed the bandages on her many hurts, and she knew he could be gentle. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad with him.

But after a while, she wondered why her new owner hadn't asked her any more questions. She also didn't understand the reason he refused to look at her again, or why he seemed to be tearing his herbs apart in anger. Had she done something wrong again?

oOoOo

"Tell me about your home," Bronamar demanded in his firm, teacher's voice. "Tell me about the place where you were before you were a slave."

Inzilanî gazed about her. It was a warm, late summer day, and he had recently begun taking her on short walks beneath the trees after the midday meal. "It is very different from this," she said quietly, waving her hand at the trees and the grass. "Not so many… We had not so many trees there, no grass. Mostly…" Her vocabulary failed, and she stopped their progress to bend and pinch a little soil between her fingers. "Like dirt, but here we find only by streams…"

"Ah. Sand." Bronamar reclaimed her hand to his elbow and they resumed their slow walk. "Was it warmer than this?"

"Oh yes! For us, this is almost a cold day." She smiled at the memory. "On this kind of day, maybe the spirits give us rain, but only a little."

"Were there streams? Rivers?"

She frowned. "What are rivers?"

"Like streams, only bigger and deeper."

"Not many streams, and one river only. River… the river came from the high mountains far away, belong… belonged to the spirits and ancestors. Next to the river, all is green, with many trees." Again she smiled in memory. "My _ammê_ brought me once to the… how you say special day, with many music and dancing?"

Bronamar's eyes smiled at her. "A festival?"

"We came once to the festival at the river. Many people come from far villages, like we did. When at the fire, after sacrifice to spirits… to the spirits… my sisters and I danced, my _attô_ had… a drum… you know drum?" She retrieved her hand and pretended to play as her _attô _had, and Bronamar smiled and nodded. Then, as she stopped her playing, her face cleared of all emotion. "When dancing was over, my _attô_ take… took… me to the man who took me away, and made me a slave."

Bronamar reclaimed her hand and pressed it into the bend in his elbow, and his hold on her was a little tighter. "How many sisters and brothers do you have?"

"I not… I don't know now. Three turns of seasons are gone now since I was there, and the… You have name for Lord of the _urik_?"

"We call him and all who served him The Enemy," Bronamar said slowly. "Not you, though. You were a slave, not an enemy."

Inzilanî shrugged. "Many of my people served this Enemy, I know this. Maybe my brothers were warriors when Enemy say 'go fight.' Two brothers, big… bigger than me. Two sisters, bigger than me too. I never… I will never know what happen to them, if _ammê _and _attô_ still live. I never see… I will never see them again."

"Why?" The healer stopped her and turned to her, his eyes wide. "Do you not want to go home?"

"I have no home," she answered sadly, "except _this_ place. I am your slave, and I stay with you."

"You are not my slave, Inzilanî." His sigh betrayed him. This was an old argument now, one that distressed them both.

"My home is here," she repeated softly, without restating the obvious. She didn't like distressing him, even if he refused to believe what was clearly the truth.

"So." Bronamar patted her hand and began walking slowly again, obviously determined to change the subject. "You say you dance?"

Inzilanî shook her head and laughed bitterly. "The Umbari captain told me, when I his… when I was his slave, that I dance like a… how you say animal that say 'mooo' and make milk?" She pulled her hand away again and put both of them at her temples, with her little fingers crooked like horns.

"Your Umbari captain was blind, you are no cow." The statement was almost angry.

"Umbari captain was very good teacher of slaves… many peoples know… knew… of him. He made me do things many, many times so I _not_ look like… cow." Again, the memories weren't good ones, and her voice grew soft. "He use…" She made a whipping gesture. "…many times… said that I cannot learn good."

"Maybe you can dance at one of _our_ festivals," Bronamar said with a deliberately lighter voice.

Inzilanî shook her head again. "I don't want to make shame for you. I no… I am no good with the dance." She took a deep breath and then released it, working hard in the way her new owner had taught her to banish the bad feelings that came with the darker memories. "Besides, I not have… I don't have things I need. Cannot dance without…" She moved her thumbs and forefingers together, remembering the tiny finger cymbals. She then swayed her hips and shook a foot at him, pointing at both. "Also need many, many small bells, here and here. And no one play… plays the drum good. I think _nimîr_ dance very different from dance of my people."

"I want to see you dance."

She glanced up at his face, surprised at the firmness of the statement of his desire. "Then I will dance for you… in the _talan_ tonight_,_" she promised and bowed to him. She was his slave, and he had proven a kind and caring master; all he had to do was express a wish, and she would be more than happy to fulfill it. She would keep the sounds of the finger cymbals and the bells in her mind, and remember the way her _attô_ would make the drum talk, and she would dance for him. If he was like the men of her people, he would want bed comfort after, of course – that _was_ the purpose of the dance, after all: to lead men to celebrate life in the one way that made new life. She shuddered at the thought of having to do _that_ again, but reminded herself sternly that she was his slave, bound to do whatever he asked of her.

Most important, however, was that, for the first time, she had received a direct command from her master, made in the proper manner. And with that, her world had righted itself just a little bit.

_Vocabulary_

ammê - (A) mother  
attô - (A) father  
nimir - (A) elf  
nimîr - (A) elves  
orch - (S) orc  
urik - (A) orcs (obj. case)  
urkan - (A) orc (nom. case)  
uruk - (A) orc (obj. case)  
yrch - (S) orcs


	12. Dance

Chapter 12 - Dance

Inzilanî moved about the small area that had been curtained off as her personal space in the _talan_, looking for the length of white material that ran between her fingers like water. She didn't have a proper girdle, much less one that had the little bells one it; the material would just have to do. Part of the allure of the dance was for the movements of her hips to be seen, and neither the gown she was wearing nor the pale blue one that was her good one allowed for that. She tied the material so that it cradled and accentuated one hip very clearly, and the extra material below the tie would serve a similar purpose on the other side.

What was she doing? This dance was sacred – something offered to the spirits – could she remember that as she danced for the _nimir_? Would dancing for her master, and not the spirits, be seen as wrong by the spirits, who would then punish her? Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, but Bronamar had commanded that she dance for him. She would have to bring as much of the meaning of the dance into it as she could and hope the spirits would understand.

Inzilanî closed her eyes and tried to remember the drumbeat her _attô _had taught her to dance to. It had been so long… And yet… From deep inside her memories, far beyond the darkness, came a patient thumping, like a heartbeat. As it swelled, she began to sway her hips and tap her fingers together - then changed that to a snap that was audible. Again, it wasn't the same, wasn't half as effective, but it would just have to do. Maybe Bronamar could be convinced to do a heartbeat on the table, to help…

No. He was her master, not her accompanist. The heartbeat she would have to hear for herself. _Attô_ always said that it was the sound of life, and that all living creatures could hear it. If so, then Bronamar would hear it too, if she did her dance properly.

But was she ready to celebrate life, though? After all, it hadn't been so very long ago that she'd tried to _end_ her life. Inzilanî stopped swaying and rubbed the healed scars on her wrists thoughtfully. It had taken Bronamar many, many discussions, some of them down and out arguments, to finally convince her that she was not an _urkan_ – at least, not in the eyes of the _nimîr_. Had the spirits been convinced by his persistence too? How would she know? Or would they see this as an obscene mockery, especially because the one she was inviting to celebrate with her was so very different.

Beyond the curtains, she heard stirring which meant that Bronamar was taking delivery of their evening meal. She could wait, postpone this until after the meal, so that whatever might happen after the dance wouldn't interfere… In many ways, she was more than willing to wait. If the evening ended as the intent of the dance directed, the longer she could postpone the inevitable, the better. Although she hoped that he would be as gentle when he did _that_ as he had been at nursing her injuries, the idea of _anyone_ doing _that_ to her again made her very nervous and almost sick to her stomach.

She untied the material at her waist and put it on the end of her bed. "Is that the evening meal?" she called through the curtains.

"It is," came the reply. "Eat first, and then you can dance."

She straightened, threw her hair back, took a deep and cleansing breath, and then walked through the curtains and to the table. "Is better idea… it is a better idea," she told him in a soft voice that brought his head up immediately, his eyes narrowed.

"Inzilanî, if you do not want to…"

Inzilanî held her hand up to halt the words. "It is my place. You want see me dance, and I will dance."

His dark brows collided. "You are _not_ my slave; and if you do not want to dance, you do not have to."

She very carefully ignored him. The last thing she wanted, just before dancing to celebrate life, was to argue. "What… how… _nimîr_ dance?" she asked instead, seating herself at her place and offering him the first cut on the loaf of bread.

"Oh." She _had_ distracted him for a change, and she was glad. "We go to a clearing - or in the middle of the snows, clear the great Hall inside the mountain. We have many musicians playing, some drums, some flutes… Do you know flutes?" She nodded; the Umbari captain had had a drummer and flute player when he was teaching dance. "We all make a big circle, and…" His hands moved in the air, struggling to put into gestures what was in his mind. "We spin and jump and _dance_." Bronamar looked at her sheepishly. "It is hard to describe."

"Yes, I know." She now lifted the platter with the slices of meat for him to take his portion first. "But you say 'we'… do you mean that men dance with the women?"

His dark eyebrows went up. "Of course. Do your men not dance with you?"

Oh dear! How to explain! "No," she said simply. "Only the women dance. The men watch."

"Only watch?" he asked, obviously shocked.

Inzilanî glanced at him and then back down to the food on her plate. "At first, yes."

"At first!" Bronamar exclaimed and then fell silent for a moment. "And after?"

"After, they… help…" She looked up at him. "My people dance to celebrate life, is… it is a gift to the spirits and to the people. After dance, is tradition to celebrate." No, she wouldn't use that ugly sign for the word that he still refused to give her; what happened at the end of the sacred dance wasn't ugly, not for those who went on to celebrate. At least, she didn't think so; _Attô_ had led her away before much of any celebrating had gotten started.

"Celebrate?" Inzilanî could hear the questions wrapped in his single word.

"Yes. The men help celebrate." It was the truth…

"How?"

She looked at him in shock and concern, and then waved her hands vaguely, not wanting to make anything even remotely suggesting the ugliness that was no celebration of anything. "Is… It is hard to describe. When I dance for you, maybe you see." And before he could ask another question, she took a huge bite of her bread and meat to end the discussion.

The meal was a silent one after that, and Inzilanî could see that she had shocked and worried her owner. Her nervousness at what she knew would happen very soon made eating difficult, and she needed more water than usual to wash down the food in a mouth that was suddenly very dry. What was more, when she finally stood to gather together their plates and other dishes, her hands were visibly shaking.

"You do not have to do this," Branamar said again, very softly. "I do not have to see."

"I can do," she replied, finishing the job and then wiping her damp palms on her skirt. "Now I must make room ready."

The brows climbed his forehead even higher this time. "What?"

Inzilanî figured that if she just did the work, he would see what she meant. She walked over to the couch and pulled all the cushions and pillows onto the floor, and then manhandled the naked furnishing flush against the trunk of the tree that held up the _talan_. The pile of cushions and pillows wasn't nearly as thick as it should be, but it would be better than the woven wood covered with a rug when the time came. The heavy stone fire-bowl couldn't be moved, but that didn't matter; the dance took place around the fire, so it was needed. She took another log from the box of wood and added it. When the time came, it would add warmth to the _talan_.

Finally, there was nothing to do but retire and put the material around her hips. She walked over to Bronamar and pulled him by the arm. "You sit down there." She pointed to the cushions.

"On the floor?"

His shock was strangely amusing. "Is… It is comfortable. I give my word. Try it."

The grace with which he sank down onto the cushions was one that she would no doubt have needed at least another year with the Umbari captain to learn. She shifted the pillows around him so that they leaned against the bottom of the couch and provided a natural back rest.

"Is good?"

Bronamar arranged himself so that he was sitting cross-legged. "I am comfortable, thank you."

Inzilanî put up her finger. "I be… will be back. Just a moment." With that, she vanished behind her curtains again.

Now that the moment had come, she forced herself to outward calm. Several times her owner had given her the chance to stop this, and each time she had deliberately kept to the path she had set for herself earlier in the day. The desire in his statement of "_I want to see you dance_" had been undeniably clear. What was more, he was no _uruk_; he would not simply throw her to the floor of the _talan_ and force himself into her. Bronamar was a gentle _nimir_. This dance was nothing to fear, _he _was nothing to fear. He was a healer; he would not hurt her.

And yet, her hands shook as she again tied the material and made certain that it made her hips very obvious. She lifted her hands then and removed the little tie at the bottom of the small braid that became the two braids from her temples and undid them, letting her hair completely loose. Then there was nothing left but to begin, and she took two deep breaths to try to slow her pounding heart before walking back through the curtains.

Bronamar's brows rose again the moment he saw her, but then he frowned as she moved to put the fire-bowl between them and then went to her knees. "Inzilanî…"

"Shhh…" She put her forefinger to her lips. "Is part of the dance." She watched his frown slowly smooth away into interested attention. "Is… It will be hard without a drum, but you must…" She tapped her forehead. "Drumbeat is like heartbeat. Ba_bum_. Ba_bum_. Ba_bum_. Understand?"

He nodded, even more focused than ever.

"Also, in my land, dancer wears many, many little bells, here and here." She pointed to her ankles and hips. "And have… _ting-sha_… not know _nimîr_ word. Little metal circles on fingers, when I hit together go '_tshin_'." She mimicked the ringing of the _ting-sha_. "I play _ting-sha_ and answer the drum Ba_bum_, but will be harder to hear. Tonight I…" She snapped her fingers in a quick rhythm. "Yes?"

"I understand," he said with a nod. "This sounds very interesting, and quite different." He looked about and leaned a little further against the couch. "A heartbeat? Like this?" And his hand beat out a steady tattoo on the naked wood of the couch seat.

"Exactly like that! You will do?" Inzilanî was astounded.

Bronamar nodded and kept the beat of his hand going in a steady Ba_bum_, Ba_bum_.

With that, Inzilanî closed her eyes and sank herself into the heartbeat, felt her own heart catch the rhythm and pulse it through her. She tapped her fingers together a few times before she remembered she had no _ting-sha_, and changed to the snaps. Soon she felt her body begin to sway with the heartbeat, and slowly rose.

In her mind, every step she took rang with the voices of tiny bells that answered the drumbeat and the snapping of her fingers. Her hips swayed and began to move in the graceful undulations that were the invitation to the celebration. Inzilanî shook out her hair and stepped forward and back, her arms stretching out to Bronamar and then back, her feet now beating a counter to the heartbeat that continued on, steadily.

As she hadn't done for nearly three years, Inzilanî felt the warmth of the spirits, moving with her and helping her make of the dance a full invitation to celebrate with her. And a glance into her owner's face told her all that she needed to know. The _nimir's_ eyes were glued to her, seeing her, watching her, _all_ of her – and they were glowing from within as if with a quiet flame.

Smiling softly, both at him and in gratitude for this help from the spirits, telling her that her dance was acceptable to them after all, she began to swing her hips more, the rhythm of her feet and her snapping fingers driving the heartbeat on, harder, faster. Bronamar sat up straighter, his hand not stopping the beat, but his entire posture telling Inzilanî that he was entering the invitation too, beginning to feel the draw that would carry him forward at the dance's end.

She spun and waved, her hips swinging freely now, the bells at her hips and on her feet ringing silently. The heartbeat was faster now. Bronamar's face was flushed, and he was breathing hard, as if he were dancing with her. His eyes were intent on her in a way that made Inzilanî grow even warmer. She gazed at his lap and knew that her dance had done its work. He would want to celebrate life with her, and the spirits would accept their offering. She spun faster, fingers working a rhythm that she hadn't even remembered; and then, suddenly, she dropped before him, hands and knees on the rug, completely out of breath not only from the dance but from the look of heat and naked desire from her master.

The heartbeat of his hand on the wood of the couch stopped, and all was silence and breaths coming fast. Their gazes were locked; there was nothing in the world that existed except Inzilanî and Bronamar. Slowly, as if in a trance, his hand began to move toward her, and Inzilanî leaned toward it instinctively to meet it. His touch was oh so gentle, so careful, as he traced her chin, her cheek. Her lips. He swallowed hard, gazing deeply into her eyes with the light of the stars blazing in his own.

Then Bronamar blinked, as if he'd been hit in the face with water, and his gaze cleared. His hand cupped Inzilanî's cheek, and his thumb stroked close to her lips. He swallowed hard again. "Inzilanî," he began, still sounding very much out of breath. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Inzilanî. We cannot do this."

Inzilanî recoiled as if he had struck her.

Bronamar rose quickly to his feet, turned, and vanished down the rope ladder without a backwards glance as if all the ancestors were chasing him for his audacity.

_Vocabulary_

attô - (A) father  
nimir - (A) elf  
nimîr - (A) elves  
talan - (S) tree-dwelling of the wood-elves  
ting-sha - a Tibetan word for small hand-bell cymbals that I borrowed shamelessly  
urkan - (A) orc (nom. case)  
uruk - (A) orc (obj. case)


	13. A Dose of Reality

Chapter 13 - A Dose of Reality

Inzilanî sat on the edge of her bed, numb to everything. She had put the couch back together with its cushions in their proper place and pulled it back out where it belonged. She had banked the fire in the fire-bowl. She had given Eirien a nod as the _nimir_ arrived for her evening watch. Then she retreated to her curtained space, removed the material at her hips, folded it carefully and stowed it so that when she was ready to use it to practice more of her sewing, it would be ready for her. Now she sat on the edge of her bed with all energy gone, all hope shattered.

She had failed again; but then, the Umbari captain had always told her she danced like a cow. A real dancer would have made certain she finished the celebration with the partner of her choice. What was more, Bronamar had walked out, nearly run out, and there could be only one reason why: she had offended him deeply. She had done as he asked, and it had displeased him. The last time she had so deeply displeased a _nimir_, she had been given away.

It would happen again, now. Bronamar would find someone to take her, hopefully someone who could use a slave for cleaning and proper duties this time. Or perhaps would he find another merchant who would take her away to another far-away place, to someone who didn't know someone who could tell tales of her inadequacy. Either way, this quiet and peaceful life lived high above the ground in the _talan_ was over. All was wrong again, and Inzilanî couldn't understand what she'd done to turn things so badly.

She had made the moves she had learned as a child and polished beneath a whip; she had seen in the way he had reacted, in the way his clothing had tented, that he was ready and even eager for the celebration. And his touch… She closed her eyes and relived that very brief moment when he had touched her face. He had wanted to celebrate with her – at least, the star-fire in his eyes had led her to believe that he did – and for the first time in her life, she had wanted it as well. What had happened? Why had the fire suddenly gone out?

Was it that the _nimîr_ didn't celebrate life with any but other _nimîr_? Was that why Borongil hadn't wanted to touch her either? Or was it because, no matter what he had told her, Bronamar deep down knew that she was _urkan_, tainted and dirty because she had been used by them. That made more sense.

Inzilanî sighed, finding no peace, no freedom from the gloom that had settled in her heart. There was no place to run from it – she was lost in this vast forest filled with ugliness sent by the Dark Lord, and she would die if she fled – and so was at the mercy of the _nimîr_. There was little more she could do than just lie back, try not to dream more ugliness in the night, so as not to make Eirien have to report her lapse to Bronamar. Not that Bronamar would care one way or the other anyway anymore.

She rolled into bed and faced the curtain and railing wall that was the outside of the _talan_, deliberately not marveling at the way the _talan_ was made that seemed to gather the starlight and moonlight into it. She would endure; she would survive. She had no choice. The _nimîr_ would give her no other choice. She wouldn't cry, wouldn't even weep, for the tears would solve nothing, soothe nothing, and she was tired of crying, of being weak. But it hurt, _she_ hurt. What he had done – fleeing from her like that – had hurt more than she had thought it possible to hurt a person without striking them with a weapon. He hadn't needed to throw her on the floor and force himself into her to make her want to scream after all.

"Inzilanî, are you awake?"

She blinked in astonishment. Borongil? Here? _Now?_ What was _he_ doing here? She didn't belong to him anymore, and therefore owed him no answers. She closed her eyes tightly and curled into a small ball. Maybe he'd just go away?

She sensed motion not far from her bed, but resisted reacting in any way. She was asleep, she wouldn't move, wouldn't even twitch. "Inzilanî? I need to talk to you, and Bronamar tells us that you understand most of his words now."

"I no… I do not belong to you anymore. I do not have to hear you," she said softly and bitterly. "Go away, and leave me in peace."

A weight settled next to her, and a large hand cupped her shoulder. "Look at me. Please."

"No. Go away. No more words."

But the _nimir_ was stronger than she was, and didn't let up the pressure but simply turned her to face him. "Yes, more words. Until you understand."

Inzilanî's eyes flew open and she propped herself up on her elbows to glare at him. "I understand. I not…" She hit herself upside the head and made a crazy face at him. "I not need more words. Bronamar giving me away now too, like you give me away. I understand. When he finds new…" Her vocabulary ran out. He had never given her a word for owner. "When he says I belong new person, I go with that one. I understand good."

Borongil wrapped a hand around her head. "Listen to me. There will be no new person to belong to. You belong to no one now – only to you."

"I am a slave," she shook her head free. "He try.. tried to say no, but I know. I _know_. First I slave Umbari, then I slave _uruk_, then I your slave, and then Bronamar…"

"No." Borongil's head shook just as firmly. "You were a slave to the Umbari and the _uruk_, but _never_ mine, _never_ Bronamar's. We took care of you, tried to help you see you were safe here; and Bronamar helped you after you cut yourself, taught you the words, helped you to heal."

"And now he is angry."

"No, he is not angry. You surprised him, Inzilanî."

"He ask… asked me to dance for him!" she didn't quite shout. "I did what he asked, and still I make him angry. I thought…" Her breath caught in her throat. "I thought the spirits help me, I feel them help, and know I can celebrate – not…" She made the ugly gesture. "Bronamar never give me word for what _uruk_ did to me. You tell me this word!"

Borongil blanched and lowered his head. "That is rape - forcing…"

"Rape." At last she had a word for the ugliness. "After the dance not rape - is celebrate. Very different. I thought…" She closed her eyes and willed the tears away. "I watch… watched Bronamar during the dance. His body said yes to the…" Again her vocabulary failed her. "I saw. And he touched me…"

"He should not have," Borongil said softly. "He knows better."

"Because I am slave," Inzilanî nodded. "Because I am dirty and wrong from when _uruk_ rape me. I am no good."

"No. No! Nothing like that." Borongil sighed. "Our people… We are…" His eyes were sad. "Inzilanî, we do not 'celebrate' only one time, and then… Oh, this is hard!" He huffed and sat down on the edge of the bed in frustration, and then looked at her carefully and tried again. "Our people have different ways from yours. You live ten, twenty, fifty years, then die. We do not."

She pulled back from him into her pillow. "What you mean, you do not?"

"We do not die, not from age. We live a very long time. Very long."

"You look like my older brother," she complained, frowning. "Not old."

Borongil smiled a sad smile. "I was old when your grandfather's grandfather's grandfather was an infant, Inzilanî. I was old when the sea people came to your land."

"No…" It couldn't be true. These things were just stories, legends! Everything that she'd ever heard about the _nimîr_ had proven untrue! That was too… wasn't it?

"Because we live a very long time, we choose one person, one love, and stay with them all the days. We never… 'celebrate'… with anyone but that one person." Borongil looked at her intently. "Ever."

Inzilanî grew still, and she sat with her mouth not quite open for a long moment. "Ever?" she asked very quietly.

"Ever," he said softly. "My mother died many, many, many hundred years ago, when my brother was born. My father never wanted another, will never want another. Ever." The utter solemnity with which he told her this, and the way his voice shook when he spoke of his mother, convinced her that he was telling the truth. "Now think, Inzilanî. If you know that you are going to live many, many, many hundred years, would you love someone who will die in ten, twenty, fifty years, if you cannot love again?"

"Can… _not_… love again?"

He shook his head. "If Bronamar celebrates with you, Inzilanî, he joins his life to yours for all the days. When you die, you will leave him alone for all the days."

"All the days." It sounded so hard, so bad, so final. "So never _nimîr_ and…" She stumbled. "What you call my people then?"

"Mortals. Men." They were small words, and Borongil said them very sadly. "Sometimes we join with mortals. Not often, but sometimes. For a short time – one mortal lifetime – all is good. But after…"

"Not good." Inzilanî's head was beginning to hurt from the many huge differences between the world she understood and the _nimîr_ world. "And I not… I am really not a slave?" she asked timidly.

"No, little one. You stopped being a slave when we dragged you out of that camp."

"And I am not… like small animal you dress in special dress and I make you and Malheril more important with other _nimîr_?" For the first time, she considered that Bronamar hadn't been lying to her after all. "And others, they are not slaves?"

Borongil's hand grasped hers gently. "No, Inzilanî. You are a very young one who was badly hurt when we found you, and we kept you with us to try to help you get better." He shook her hand slightly to make his point. "The boys we found with you, they were hurt too, but not so badly. With other mortals, they would grow strong again, and we took them to other mortals. But my father was afraid for you, with good reason. And now…"

Inzilanî sat up in bed. "But what I do now, Borongil? If I not a slave, what am I?"

His grey eyes shone at her with understanding. "Free."

She stared at him, her mouth hanging open for a long time, shocked and struck dumb by the enormity of what he had said with such a small, simple word.

Borongil rose and motioned for her to lie back down, then tucked her back into her covers. "As for what you do now, what do you _want_ to do? The choice is _yours_, after all." He patted her hands on the blanket and then quietly left the _talan_.

Inzilanî lay awake for a very long time after that.

oOoOo

Bronamar arrived at the _talan_ after Inzilanî had sat down to the table to break her fast with food from a basket delivered early that morning. He paused the moment she saw him, then walked over and sat down. "Inzilanî…"

"Is all right. Borongil tell me... told me much." She presented the plate of bread to him. "I am sorry I… surprised you."

She had never seen him pull such a face before; he had a thoroughly embarrassed look in his eye, and his cheeks were red. "I _did_ ask you to do what you did," he said finally. "Sometimes I need to think first before asking."

Inzilanî had to smile. "Yes, you did ask. But I think you not… did not know _what_ you ask."

"Definitely not." He nodded vigorously, but then sobered. "I am sorry I… just left."

"Borongil tell… told me many things I not know before," she offered with the bowl of nutmeats she held out. "I not know… and I thought maybe…" It was her turn to blush. "First time since _uruk_ that I think maybe… not bad to celebrate life. You would not…" She stopped and thought for a moment, then gave the ugly sign. "You would not…"

"No, I would not." Bronamar had turned very pale. "I should never have…"

"Bronamar, I _danced_ for you. I _asked_ you to celebrate life with me. Celebrate life is not rape. Very different."

His eyes widened in shock, and then he shook his head. "Inzilanî, I…"

She shook her head. "I… did not understand _nimîr_ way. Borongil told me many things. _Nimîr_ way cannot have bed-slave, cannot celebrate life from dance with slave." She tipped her head at him. "You not understand my dance, I not understand your ways. Was better you left, before…"

"But I hurt you."

"Yes." Inzilanî watched her teacher flinch as if she'd slapped him. "But the hurt was not understanding. You not want to hurt. I know this."

"I am sorry." Bronamar looked up into her eyes, and she could see the depth of sorrow in his. "I am sorry for many things. It is not wise for a healer and one whom he is helping to… celebrate life, as you say. I should never have touched you in that way."

"_Nimîr_ never make mistakes?" Inzilanî asked him gently. His eyes widened. "Was a mistake. I asked for your touch, remember?" She smiled at him again as he nodded. "I _liked_ your touch, before I hear it was wrong. Like I tell you, Borongil told me many things, and I think for long time after he leave… left. He say… said… that you help me to heal – from these." She pointed to her wrists. "I think maybe you help heal more than that."

He gazed at her steadily for a very long moment. "Something has changed. _You_ have changed."

"Yes. I know now you tell me the truth." She straightened her shoulders and looked him directly in the eyes. "I know now I am not a slave." Then she sagged and looked down at her plate. "But I not know who I am now if I not slave… what I want to do. Borongil say is _my_ choice now. How I know what I want?" She turned timid eyes to her teacher.

Bronamar's face was clear of all worry or shame, and he reached out a hand to her. "Perhaps that is something we can talk about today, while we practice more words."

Inzilanî turned her hand so that she held him back. "I think I like that talk."

_Vocabulary_

_nimir - (A) elf_

_nimîr - (A) elves_

_talan - (S) tree dwelling of the wood elves_

_uruk - (A) orc (nom. case)_

_urkan - (A) orc (obj. case)_


	14. Epilogue

Chapter 14 - Epilogue

Inzilanî stared at Bronamar, surprised to see him return after having left for the day. "Who is here, you say?"

"Prince Legolas, Borongil's younger brother. He is back from the war in Gondor and Mordor. He was part of the group that won the war with the Enemy. He is home just this morning, and brought a …" Bronamar used a word Inzilanî had never heard before. "Come on!" His head vanished from the _talan,_ and she could hear his feet hit the ground.

"Bronamar! Slower, please! What is a _naugren_?" Inzilanî descended the rope ladder from the _talan_ with the ease of practice. "Bronamar! You walk too fast!"

The healer turned and waited for her, and then caught up her hand and began pulling her along. "They are the children of _Ôl_, shorter than you mortals and with much more hair. They live in caves, like our Halls, only deeper; and mine gold and silver and jewels. This one is a good friend of Prince Legolas, so _Aran _Thranduil has said we will be on good behavior."

"Do the _nimîr_ not like the _naugrim_ then?" she panted. Bronamar's legs were much longer than hers; she had to trot to keep up with him without getting pulled from her feet onto her face.

"I can pick you up and carry you," he threatened with a frown when she tugged on his hand to slow him down. "You are small enough to put under one arm…"

"I can walk - but will you walk slower, please…"

"I want to get there so I can help with the decorations!" he insisted, but he did rein in his legs so that her trot kept her even with him.

"About the _naugrim_…" she reminded him breathlessly.

"It is a long story, and I am sure there are many misunderstandings on both sides. But to make the tale easier to tell, no; _edhil_ and _naugrim_ have not gotten along well for a very long time. Hurry now!"

Inzilanî saw that he was taking her deeper into the forest, somewhere she had been told was not safe for her to enter alone. "We will be safe here, Bronamar?"

"Look." His thumb pointed the way up into the branches of the trees, and she could finally make out the grey-garbed warriors that were watching over the woods. "This is where we hold our festivals, when the weather is warm enough."

"It is not warm!" Indeed, had he not been telling her just that morning that soon she would have to move inside the Halls again because the weather would make it too cold for her to be in a simple _talan_ with only a fire-bowl and blankets to keep her warm? Even the trees were going to sleep now, he'd told her; that was why they had let their leaves fall. He'd also said that rain would fall from the sky and sit white on the ground, but that was something she was finding hard to believe.

"We'll have a bonfire tonight; it will be nice and warm!" Bronamar pulled at her again. "Come on!"

There was a clearing ahead, and the sounds of many voices talking excitedly. As they drew closer, Inzilanî could see that many of the _nimîr_ who lived in the Halls had come out, and that most of the _telain_ in the area had emptied as well. Tables had been brought out and lined one side of the clearing, and a whole venison was turning slowly over the flames in the center, safely bounded by a circle of rocks. At the far end of the clearing, several _nimîr_ were hanging lanterns cleverly carved from small gourds from the lower branches of the leafless trees.

Bronamar dropped Inzilanî's hand and hurried over to join them. Inzilanî looked about the clearing and found Malheril directing some of the women in getting the tables ready to hold the festival food. She went over to her old mistress and gave a bow – a proper _nimîr_ bow, because she wasn't a slave anymore. "I want to help. Please."

"Inzilanî! Good! Here," and Malheril spun and pointed to a pile of fabric sitting on an old stump. "We need those cloths covering the tables."

It was strange that the _nimîr_ could be so proud and noble, and yet be willing to do the kind of work that her own people would normally give to slaves. The _nimîr_ didn't _have_ slaves; that had been another thing that had taken a while to understand. The women who cleaned Malheril's and Borongil's apartment in the Hall did so as their way of helping the entire community. Inzilanî had joined their number not that long ago, realizing that cleaning was one way that she could help that wouldn't take her a long time to perfect. And because it was a task she had chosen for herself, she found she got great satisfaction from her work and in doing it well.

Nimiel, one of the women who cleaned for Malheril, joined Inzilanî now, and in short order the two of them had the wooden tables covered and ready for the food. Inzilanî stopped and looked about her, at the happy faces busy putting the last touches on the clearing, and at _Pharazôn_ himself, standing proud in his golden robe and crown of autumn leaves at the far end of the clearing, with a wine goblet in one hand and the other arm around the shoulders of a golden-haired _nimir_ archer she didn't remember having seen before. Borongil and another creature – person? – stood with them. The newcomer was short, with a head so covered with bristly brown hair that the eyes were barely visible.

She knew _Pharazôn's_ true name now, but she privately hung onto the title she had given him the first time she saw him. He would always be the Golden One, the one who shined brighter than all the others. He had saved her life and brought her to a place where she could finally heal, and in the end accepted her as one of his own without reservation for as long as she wished to remain. She was no _nimîr_, but she had been made welcome. To her, he was a King worth serving for the rest of her days.

oOoOo

"What is that?" Inzilanî pointed with her thumb at the sudden appearance of drums and pipes and strange, stringed instruments she'd never seen before.

Bronamar finished drinking his wine before answering her. "Do you remember, long ago, just before you danced for me, you asked me how the _edhil_ dance?" With wide eyes, she nodded. "Well, we dance tonight, and celebrate the return of our Prince along with the end of the harvest."

She bit her tongue and smiled. It had taken time to learn that _her_ idea of "celebration" and that of the _nimîr_ was quite different. For them, it was a way of letting everyone share in a joy equally; she understood that now. But until now, she hadn't seen it expressed in dance.

"We celebrate, Bronamar? Really?" she asked slyly, her smile turning playful. The _nimir's_ eyes widened, and then he threw his head back and laughed. My, how she enjoyed the way he could laugh and make the world sparkle.

"We show our joy," he answered back, "although it is tradition that during and after the dancing, some of the _edhil_ might be… celebrating life. I know little about such things." he pronounced with a stiff posture and a grin as wicked as Inzilanî's.

The drumbeat wasn't a heartbeat, but the rhythm was infectious. The music of the flutes was wilder than anything that she had heard from those that had accompanied her dance lessons in Umbar, but she could feel the melodies catching at her soul and making it feel lighter, happier. The harps, as Bronamar called them, could make sounds like waterfalls, or give a deep voice that was like the voice of the spirits themselves.

"Will you dance with me?"

Inzilanî looked at Bronamar, her friend, her confidant, her teacher, her healer. They had come a long way from that painful night. She smiled. "I think I will like to dance with you."

"Good!" His hand caught at hers, and he pulled her into the center of the clearing, close to where the flames of the fire had been built up until they clawed at the night sky. "Now you will learn to celebrate like one of us."

He put his hands at her waist and lifted her high into the air as if she weighed nothing at all, and she learned that _nimîr_ dancing was like flying. She threw her head back and laughed, and shared the joy in the safe return of one who had been in evil places. With a full heart, Inzilanî threw herself into a dance that celebrated – and shared – her joy in her freedom.

It had been a long road, and she had passed through evil places, but she was home too.

FIN

_Vocabulary_

aran - (S) king  
edhil - (S) elves  
naugren - (S) dwarf  
naugrim - (S) dwarves  
nimir - (A) elf  
nimîr - (A) elves  
Ôl - (S) Aulë  
Pharazôn - (A) Golden One  
talan - (S) tree dwelling of wood elves  
telain - (S) tree dwellings of wood elves


End file.
